


yesterday came suddenly

by falsegoodnight



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Abduction, Action, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Angst, Assassin Harry, Blood and Injury, Bottom Louis, Double Life, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Happy Ending, Lingerie, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mpreg, Mpreg Louis, Nurse Louis, Protective Harry, Top Harry, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-20
Updated: 2021-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-28 18:20:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 48,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30143625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/falsegoodnight/pseuds/falsegoodnight
Summary: They don’t talk about it. The way Harry deflects any and all questions about his past and Louis pretends he isn’t confused or hurt by it. The way Harry keeps a distance between them and Louis acts like he can’t see it creating a wall between them. The way Harry doesn’t always answer honestly and Louis goes along with it as if he can’t tell. They don’t talk about it.Harry knows Louis feels like he doesn’t know him well enough, and it pains him. It pains him every time Louis gets that look on his face that’s a mixture of disappointment, frustration, and confusion. And sometimes, self-blame. It pains him because Louis iswrong.Because even though there is a lot Louis doesn’t know about him, there is so much that he does. He knows what Harry is like at his most vulnerable: curled up on this bed with him in the dark where it’s safest. He knows Harry in a way no one else does.-Or the one where Harry, the deadliest member of the NYC assassins’ guild, is forced to face a seemingly impossible task in hopes of finally leaving the underground behind for good, but when ghosts from the past come back to haunt him, escaping the darkness becomes that much harder.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 124
Kudos: 338





	yesterday came suddenly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kittenblou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittenblou/gifts).



> Happy (late) Birthday Chelsea!! I can't even begin to explain how grateful I am that we crossed paths and eventually got close - you've become one of my best friends and I'm so happy to know you! We're connected by the Mandalorian, lavender, exes to lovers, California (west coast best coast always <3), and so much more, but we also share a deep love of action-packed stories so it's fitting that my first attempt at one is for you!
> 
> Even more fitting is that this story is based on Prompt 80 from the [BLFF 2020](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Bottom_Louis_Fic_Fest_2020): "John Wick au (kinda?), in which Harry is a legendary assassin but hides this from his sweet boyfriend Louis the whole time. Cue lots of badass Harry action scenes while trying to juggle this with his normal life with his sweet boyfriend and their cute dog Clifford." This is a prompt that Chelsea submitted but was never picked. I hope I do it justice for you <3
> 
>  **Additional Warnings:** There's a lot of violence in this fic as well as Harry killing or injuring multiple people. I wouldn't describe any of it as particularly graphic but there's definitely mentions of blood and the use of guns, knives, and even bare hands as weapons for murder. The abduction happens quickly and painlessly if that's also a concern. And again, it's a happy ending! Please feel free to reach out and ask questions because your wellbeing should always be the first priority! 
> 
> There are also brief mentions of drugs/drug-dealing, sexual assault, human trafficking, and other crimes but nothing is particularly extrapolated on!
> 
> I would also like to take the time to emphasize that although I take inspiration from John Wick in some aspects, it's also _nothing_ like that plot/story. Harry works for a private assassin Guild that operates independently from any organized crime organization and consists of a strict, somewhat moral code for contracts and potential marks/bounties. For the sake of believability, I did adapt an alternate universe similar to the world of John Wick where things like assassins exist and run under the radar from most of the public. Law enforcement and other authorities know of these underground operations but mostly look the other direction since it's all very contained to the underground and doesn't affect civilians. 
> 
> Anyways, thank you so much [Emily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowcaplou/pseuds/snowcaplou) for reading this over for me and also being by NYC picker. Your deep insight into the characters and character relationships was so helpful as well as your eye for maintaining tone and mood. A shout out to Sarah, Hayley, Alex, and Rori for helping me brainstorm, giving me input, and cheering me on!
> 
> Without further ado, enjoy!

_part i ~ roll the dice_

Dmitri Baros was an interesting target. 

For one, he’s more discreet than Harry’s usual assignment, remaining in the shadows instead of out in the spotlight. He’s been nose-deep in the underground for a few decades now, getting his hands in a variety of filth: smuggling, gambling, fraud… and human trafficking. 

Nothing direct, of course. He was always in the background, facilitating the facilitators and reaping the benefits without doing any of the brunt work. Discreet. 

In fact, he’s been slowly weaseling out of the game these past couple of years, operations dwindling along with his profit. The latter is the real crux of his character: the profit. Like most of the people Harry has been assigned in his history, Baros fits a certain profile. 

He is greedy. It goes beyond the natural tendencies of the human race, an ugly rot in his body that’s propelled his life’s actions and choices. He is a man that is never satisfied, always needing more money - more glitz, more riches, _more._ And he’s a man that’s willing to do just about anything to get it, his excuse for a conscience lying buried under piles of fancy watches and sleek sports cars. 

A man like Dmitri could never give up the life he’s become accustomed to over these years, could never give up the possibility of elevating that lifestyle even more. He’s still got one foot dug deep in the ground, and if there’s one thing Harry knows it’s that the longer you stay in something, the more difficult it becomes to get out. A quicksand of life. Money - the underground - is Baros’ quicksand, and he’s not interested in a rope. 

So much so that he’s been spotted at two basement operations this past week alone. Harry knows because he was there both times, disguised and watching from afar, mapping out the essence of Dmitri Baros and all his quirks, behaviors, and patterns. Beginning the process of planning his demise. 

It all built up to tonight. It’s Friday night, almost ten o'clock. Two days earlier than Harry was intending for things to go, but he’s never been one to falter when the game changes. He takes it all in stride, setting out with his initial plan with a few new alterations. 

Most notably, the original plan didn’t include trailing Baros through the darkest streets of Crown Heights. Dmitri was meant to be in lower Manhattan tonight, ending the week like he always does with a tall glass of vodka at a shitty bar with his friend, Antonio. Harry would have been camped across the street up a few floors in the location he pinpointed days ago, ready with a Savage 10BA and an open window. 

But then Baros changed his mind and changed the game. Harry would be lying if he said he wasn’t a bit irritated about it. He had _plans,_ for fuck’s sake. He was supposed to be done with this over an hour ago, but here he is, waiting around the corner of an alley while Baros passes off drugs to some dude in his early twenties that talks too much. 

The one bright side of all this is that Brooklyn is a walk in the park compared to the city in terms of remaining uncaught. Baros practically handed his death to Harry on a silver platter with this turn of events. If only he’d just hurry the fuck up. 

It’s half past ten when the guy finally slunks off, leaving Baros to count his bills obliviously. When he’s finished, he tucks them in his coat only to pull out a cigarette, seemingly in no rush to get out of here. Harry regards him carefully, hand sliding to the holster on his belt. 

Dmitri Baros is the kind of man that walks around with his spine straight and his head held high, years worth of confidence and fearlessness lining his every step. Even now, he stands and smokes in this alley like he’s got nothing to worry about, never once showing any alertness to his surroundings. He is a man that radiates power and authority, undoubtedly what he’s wanted to possess from the beginning - something else he could never give up. 

It’s almost fascinating how quickly he drops that air the minute he hears the click of Harry’s gun, safety being switched off. His body goes tense, breath catching in his throat. When he turns, he does so in a flash, pulling his own gun from his sleeve and facing his hunter with the weapon held out straight in front of him. 

Harry knows what he sees: an unknown figure, cloaked in darkness, but the shape of the Glock pointed directly at him unmistakable. For a moment, neither of them moves, regarding each other. 

It’s obvious Baros is weighing his options, sweat forming at his temples and at his throat, emphasizing the bob of his Adam’s apple. As ill-advised as it may seem, Harry lets him, same as he let him pull the gun. He considers it an act of mercy: a final chance, to be taken or ignored. It won’t be a successful chance - not when Harry has him cornered and over a decade of honed skill and experience over him, but it’s the principle of the thing. 

“Who sent you?” Baros says once he spits the cig out, clearly attempting to mask the waver in his voice. “Was it Rodriguez?” 

Harry doesn’t answer, never one to play into these little ruses. He finds it fascinating how so many of his victims do this - try to prolong the events, to _stall._ Humans as a whole cower before the idea of death. They’d do anything to evade it even when Death has come right to their door. Harry has no fucking clue who Rodriguez is and he wonders if Baros does either. 

Either way, Baros seems to realize pretty quickly that Harry won’t entertain his game so he does what many of Harry’s victims have done in the past: he acts recklessly. 

He points his gun, hands shaking ever so slightly, and shoots. Despite his clear lack of experience, he manages a hit to Harry’s torso, knocking back onto the ground. The bullet never touches skin, of course - not with the Kevlar-enforced SAPI vest Harry is wearing - but it’s still a bullet striking him at over 300 meters per second. 

His lower ribs erupt in a concentrated shock of pain and he breathes deeply as Baros scrambles back, trying to escape. _Brave,_ Harry thinks. Not many men would have the guts to do what Baros did, and Harry honestly finds this unexpected nerve entertaining. 

Alas, it makes little difference. Harry doesn’t need to be on his feet or not in pain to aim his gun and shoot Baros in the thigh as he runs away. He lets out a howl of pain, crashing to the ground. 

Gritting his teeth, Harry staggers to his feet and stalks toward Baros who’s making a pitiful attempt at crawling away, dragging his injured leg behind him. A stream of blubbering pleads spill from his lips, earlier confidence and swagger nowhere to be seen. 

Harry places his boot flat against his spine, pressing the man down as he squirms and cries out. He is calm and composed as he tilts the nozzle down and shoots Baros straight in the crown of his head. Baros goes slack, dead in the next breath as blood pools in his skull. 

The shot echoes in the night, but is followed by complete and utter silence. For a moment, Harry can only hear the labored sound of his own breathing and the accelerated pounding of his heart. 

He lifts his foot from the body and steps back, letting out a measured breath. 

Baros will be found eventually and depending on the weight his name holds as well as any past attention, there may or may not be an investigation. And if there’s an investigation, the things he was so desperate to keep hidden will come to light and suddenly the search for answers will die out. Harry has confidence in that progression of events because he’s witnessed it time and time again. Men like Dimitri Baros - terrible, rotten men with pages and pages of indiscretions and atrocities under their belt - are never missed. They’re buried in the ground and forgotten. 

Instead of focusing on his murder, law enforcement will focus on the operations he had ties to. If the NYPD is half as competent as they pretend to be, they’ll infiltrate and eventually shut them all down. Harry may call in an anonymous tip himself within the next couple of days, just to nudge them in the right direction. 

That’s not his concern right now though. He checks Baros’ pulse just in case and then pulls out his small container of UV paint and dips two fingers into it, quickly smearing some on the ground and then on the nape of Baros’ neck. When he retracts his hand, the tips of his fingers are stained red. It’s a sign that marks the Guild for those who know to look for it. Lips curling into a grimace, he wipes his hand with the underside of his black shirt, placing the gun back in his holster and the paint back into its spot. He then makes his way out of the alley, blending in with the shadows and the cover of night, not that he’s too worried. In this part of Brooklyn, little could happen that would evoke more than a blink of an eye. 

As he begins his trek through the streets back to where he parked the Guild-mandated Subaru, he checks the time again. It’s ten thirty-seven at night and he still has to get back to the city and stop by the checkpoint, a Guild base for returning gear and verifying markers. 

He was meant to be at the apartment over an hour ago, eating a nice home-cooked meal and far beyond any thoughts of Dmitri Baros for good. Excursions like this are often unpredictable, Harry knows all too well, yet he can’t help but feel irritated anyway. He’d been counting on tonight to be the reward of his long week.

Either way, the thought that he’s now free to head straight to his favorite place in New York is enough to make him walk faster, mind wandering to how good it’ll feel to spend tomorrow lazing around and relaxing. Every step he takes feels like one piece of armor sliding off. 

The moon acts as a witness as Harry Styles sheds his cloak and becomes human once more. 

{★}

Harry slips into the dark apartment as quietly as he can, shutting and locking the door carefully behind him. He feels a lot more refreshed now that he’s showered and scrubbed the blood and UV paint from beneath his fingernails. The ache in his ribs is still prominent but he’s taken some meds for it, not too worried about it when it’s nothing he hasn’t felt before and tenfold. Besides, there’s something - _someone -_ more important on his mind. 

The lights are off everywhere which means his angel got tired waiting up for him and went to bed already. Harry is still disappointed he missed the dinner he’s been looking forward to all week, but he can’t say he’s upset at what surely awaits him now. After the tediousness and weight of the last few hours, there’s nothing Harry wants more than to slide in behind his favorite person and cuddle him to sleep. 

He heads to the bedroom, having the layout of the apartment memorized from the first time he stepped foot inside nearly six months ago. The door is just the slightest bit ajar like it always is and it creaks when he opens it like it always does. Nearly six months and he still hasn’t quite figured out how to evade it. 

“H?” a voice calls out, sleepy and soft. He pauses, letting the voice sink into him.

“Lou,” he says after a moment, guilt bubbling up when he sees Louis’ head lift from the mattress, hands raising to rub at his eyes. “Did I wake you?” He moves towards the bed, getting a knee onto it and leaning down to kiss his boyfriend hello. 

“Mhm. You’re late,” Louis mumbles, pressing his face into Harry’s shirt. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, kicking his shoes off and scooting in beside Louis. It’s warm under the mass of blankets Louis has collected around him, heat seeping down to his bones and easing the tightness in his chest. “We had... difficulties with the new location.” 

“Did you eat?” Louis asks, nuzzling into Harry’s chest when he wraps his arms around him, tugging him impossibly closer. “I have leftovers in the fridge if you didn’t.” 

“Paul ordered takeout,” he lies. In reality, he put together a pitiful ham sandwich at a checkpoint and scarfed it down on the way here. “How was work?” 

“Long,” Louis whispers, humming in appreciation when Harry slides a hand under his shirt to smooth up his back. “Exhausting. But better than yesterday.” He yawns quietly, nose scrunching up in what can only be described as an adorable way. “That reminds me - I have an early shift tomorrow. Tried to get out of it but we’re short Mandy and Chelsea this week.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, knowing Louis is already disappointed and he’d only make it worse. Saturdays are usually _their_ day, spent lazing around and watching TV and being together _._ It’s the one thing Harry looks forward to every week, the one constant as the world keeps shifting beneath his feet. “I’ll wake up with you,” he decides. 

Louis scoffs into his shirt. “You need to get more sleep, Mr. Location Scout,” he scolds. His cold toes press into Harry’s calves but he doesn’t flinch like he used to. It’s as familiar as the sound of Louis’ ceiling fan whirring above them. “You’ve been working late all week.” 

He’s been working on this mark all week, he thinks. “Your presence gives me all the energy I need,” is what he actually says, slow and serious. 

“Sap,” Louis mutters softly, nothing but fondness in his tone. Harry can feel as he goes lax, already drifting off into sleep. It’s always been so easy for him. Maybe because he’s always so tired, working himself to bone at the hospital for at least five days a week. But he loves being a nurse practitioner, loves the satisfaction of working in healthcare and being able to help people, often in emergency care. It’s one of the things Harry admires about him most. He really tries not to think about the irony of it all. 

With a sigh, Harry lifts his head and glances at the clock - it’s just past one in the morning, red digits sticking to his eyelids. He’s officially survived another day and is a ways into the next one too. 

One day at a time. He’ll take it one day at a time, living and breathing and surviving until those days run out. 

Fitting his chin on top of Louis’ head, Harry pushes the skeletons into the closet and tries to sleep. 

{★}

One of the biggest branches of the New York Assassins Guild is located completely underground. The Guild has divisions located all over the city, offshoots in each borough and smaller checkpoints scattered between. But the secondary hub in Gramercy is the one Harry reports to once a month for his assignments. Designed like a bunker, its interior consists of thick concrete and steel-reinforced walls and dozens of training rooms and temporary quarters. If you were to look at it from an above-perspective, you’d see a tight coil of compact spaces, every square foot utilized to its maximum capacity. 

The main point of access comes from the abandoned subway platform on 18th and Lexington - secluded and discreet. There’s always the occasional homeless person stopping by, but for the most part, the area is deserted as Harry finds the familiar lever between the ledges. He tugs it down and the trap door slides open from concrete with a weary creak. 

He’s one of the only veteran assassins who work out of this division. Most of the seasoned Manhattan-based mercenaries choose to operate out of the biggest branch via Track 61 under the acclaimed Waldorf Astoria hotel, but Harry’s always steered clear of high-profile locations like that. Remaining unassuming and inconspicuous has always been his priority, and no amount of ritz could change that. 

After disarming the timed lock and pressing the pad of his thumb to the pad, the final steel door jerks open with a click and he steps inside. 

No matter how many times he’s been in this elevator, he still gets disoriented when the pitch darkness first envelopes him when the door slides shut. But he’s too busy counting down in his head to loiter on the feeling. It takes approximately thirty-seven seconds for the circa-1910s elevator to travel down to the main floor but it takes Harry only twenty-eight to shrug off his blazer and then strip down to his pants. When the doors part, he steps out and immediately heads to his locker where his training gear is kept. 

Shoving them on quickly, he folds his discarded clothes and places them in the locker for later. He doesn’t ever really _need_ to use the practice facilities, but he makes it a point to train a bit whenever he comes in. Oz is always late with the month’s picks when it comes to Harry anyway. 

Oz is the official head of this division and the only Guild employee beside resources staff and Aleksander - or _Argos,_ as the rest of the Guild knows him as - that Harry has direct contact with. It’s intentional, of course. The identities of Guild assassins must remain protected, even from each other. However, there is a link that connects all of them and that is that they are all Guild: the Stratos, as Aleksander calls it. They are bound to the Code and to the cause. Harry has the wheel tattooed on his forearm to prove it.

Wheel. One of the distinguishing symbols of Rhamnousia, or more widely known as Nemesis, the Greek goddess of revenge and fortune. Not ‘fortune’ as in good luck, but fortune as in fate - proportionate to one's actions and morality. She was often known as ‘Adrasteia’ too: “One from whom there is no escape.”

It is something that represents the message of the Guild - the calling, the quest, their justification. Harbingers of justice and kismet, Aleksander said once. He’s always defended the Guild’s function as inherently good, no matter how much blood they’ve collectively shed, how many lives they’ve taken. 

_We eliminate New York’s worst monsters,_ he told Harry a long time ago. He was young then, naive and numb and terrified. The only thing the word ‘killing’ enacted in him then was haunted memories of his father’s limp body and his mother’s screams. 

Now, death is as normal to him as breathing. 

Oz finally comes in when Harry is practicing his knife throwing, blade after blade sinking into the worn wooden targets across the room. The overhead light in this space is dim, flickering every few seconds and casting an eerie glow over everything. Each knife still glints as they soar through the air and embed themselves into the target center. 

“It’s like you don’t even have to try,” Oz scoffs, shaking his head. He looks like he always does, wire-rimmed glasses over tawny eyes, shoulders hunched from an invisible weight, hand curled around the top of his cane as he ambles to the bench. He’s in his early thirties yet age and exhaustion lines his every movement. 

Harry reluctantly puts down his next knife, walking over to meet him. “Cane day?” he asks. 

“Cane day,” Oz nods, sitting down with a strained breath. His single right leg shifts restlessly as Oz works to get comfortable. He has a prosthetic usually, sleek and strong and sturdy. Aleksander had it commissioned for him specifically, but there are days where Oz refuses to use it. _Sometimes you must remember what you’ve lost,_ he said the first time it happened, four years ago. “You’ve been busy,” Oz comments, holding out the file in his free hand to Harry expectantly. 

He takes it carefully, already flipping it open and scanning the list. Names, addresses, and more information burn into his eyes. “How many?” he asks. 

“Four,” Oz says, shrugging. “Slow month.” 

“That’s fine,” Harry murmurs. There was a time where he regularly took on eight to ten targets per month, often the most high-risk and dangerous ones. A time where his entire life revolved around the chase - days spent scouting and researching and nights spent on the prowl. He’s older now, much more tired. He's stopped picking his own assignments in favor of letting Oz chse for him. 

“There is one point of interest,” Oz says, lips rolling together. He reaches over and tugs a paper out from the file in Harry’s hands. 

Harry narrows his eyes, taking in the black and white identification shot and name. _Ethan Giordano._ He quickly skims the information presented: age thirty-five, drug-dealer with his own history of cocaine abuse including two hospitalizations, and… His lips pull into a frown, throat going sour. Six charges of sexual assault which have been covered up over the past couple of years. “He’s first,” Harry says. 

“Not so fast, Koschei,” Oz says, pronouncing Harry’s codename wrong like he always does - a hard ‘ch’ instead of a ‘sh.’ It’s different from any other assassin at the Guild, most notably in that he was not assigned it when he turned eighteen and officially signed a contract with the Guild. The first time Aleksander called him Koschei he was only nine years old. Koschei, as in the Deathless, the Immortal, the skeleton king from Russian folklore. “He’s got hires.” 

“How many?” Harry wrinkles a brow, glancing back at the paper. Giordano has got some money to spend, for sure. Bodyguards made killing more difficult, but not impossible. Nothing Harry can’t pull off.

“Surveillance shows three or four at a time,” Oz says, pursing his lips. “Easy lure and eliminate case.” 

“Incapacitate,” Harry corrects, blinking. Oz flicks him a look and nods. The less bodies, the better. It’s part of the Guild and High Table code for one, but it’s also part of Harry’s personal code. He would never murder a non-target unless the situation warrants it - as in, self-defense. Thankfully, it’s something he’s only ever experienced once. “Thanks, Oz.” 

Oz brushes him off. “Belladonna’s coming in at twelve. You should get out of here.” 

Harry nods, shutting the file and stepping away from the bench. Oz is in some ways the closest thing he has to a friend. “See you next month.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Oz says, beginning the process of getting up. “Knock ‘em dead, ‘o mighty Koschei,” he says then, just like he always does. He thinks the irony is funny. 

Harry nods, hands twitching. He wishes he could stay longer to train more, the steady motions of practicing and the distraction that discipline brings appealing. But he can’t, so he turns and forces himself to put one foot in front of the other. “Take care, Ozzie,” he calls out over his shoulder, amusement warm in his chest at Oz’s subsequent groan of annoyance. 

When he’s back out on the streets, the nondescript file tucked safely under his arm, he tilts his head back and savors the sunlight warming his face. Around him, the sounds of the city fill the air and his ears, comforting and familiar. 

As he walks past dozens of other New Yorkers, all busy and focused and consumed with their own lives, it’s almost easy to pretend that he’s no different. That he’s walking to work, thinking about his next paycheck or when he’s going to meet his friend at that new bar in Brooklyn this evening. Normal things for someone in their mid-twenties to be thinking about. 

It’s _almost_ easy, but not quite. 

{★}

“How was your day?” Louis asks. He’s sprawled out on his couch, all tired limbs and soft eyes. He tilts his head back, craning up to meet Harry’s lips when he leans down to kiss him hello. 

Reflecting over the day he spent doing research and beginning the process of working out profiles for his next four targets, Harry settles on, “Boring.” He gestures for Louis to sit up so he can take the spot under his head. When he’s settled, he begins carding a hand through Louis’ soft hair, eyes trailing over the curve of Louis’ cheek and the flutter of his lashes. Even after all this time, Louis’ beauty can still take him off guard. “How about you?” 

“Got to do some sutures last night,” Louis murmurs. “For this poor girl with a nasty cut on her arm. Otherwise, uneventful.” 

As an emergency care nurse practitioner, Louis is _allowed_ to do sutures if the need arises but it doesn’t happen often. In fact, that’s actually how they met. Seven months ago, on a rainy October day. He didn’t know then that he’d be here now. 

Louis shifts in his lap, eyes fluttering shut. If Harry stays still, he’ll be out in a minute flat. He’ll deny that he can fall asleep so easily but Harry knows that all he needs is a comfortable and warm spot to curl up and he can nap anywhere. It reminds Harry a bit of a cat. 

Either way, Harry is happy to act as Louis’ pillow. It feels good to sit down and do nothing sometimes - to just turn off his mind and forget all about those four names whirling through his mind. 

But then his ears catch a _thud_ coming from the direction of the kitchen. He automatically tenses, accustomed to hearing even the slightest strange noise from his years of stealth training and naturally alert state of being. 

He waits a second but nothing happens. He’s in Louis’ apartment, not the Guild or some deserted alleyway. His boyfriend is dozing off on his lap and Clifford is similarly napping on the armchair across the room. All is well.

But then there’s another thud, louder this time and every bit as unfamiliar. It’s harsh against the usual soft and safe atmosphere of Louis’ abode, scraping against Harry’s senses.

Before he knows it, he’s carefully slipping out from beneath Louis, watching a cute furrow form between his brows in response.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Just checking something,” Harry says, moving towards the hallway before he can come up with a better excuse.

The chances of there actually being a threat present are minuscule but Harry would rather know for sure than try to rationalize. The next sound has him almost jumping, loud and raspy. A _yowl_ coming from -

He looks down and immediately stops short. 

Staring up at him with wide blue eyes is a _cat._ Not just a cat, but a kitten - white and fluffy, barely reaching the bottom of Harry’s calf in height. A _kitten_ is the intruder. 

“Louis,” he calls out, slow. 

“Yes, dear?” Louis says. When Harry glances back at him, he’s sitting up and flipping through his magazine, nap forgotten. 

Harry pauses, turning back to the newcomer and watching as the kitten tilts its head and meows at him. For a second, Harry almost sees a bit of _Louis_ in it. What are the chances that he compared Louis to a cat just minutes before? “Baby,” he says helplessly. “Are you aware there’s a cat in your apartment?” 

“Hm?” Louis says, and then, “Oh, yeah,” like it’s something he forgot about but just remembered. When Harry glances at him again, he’s smiling sheepishly. “I got a cat.” 

“A cat,” Harry echoes, blinking. He nods his head like this makes perfect sense. “What’s their name?” 

“Nibbles,” Louis says, looking excited now. “Because she keeps nibbling on my fingers.” He finally stands up, coming over to them. Automatically, Nibbles spots him and barrels into his legs, purring loudly. Louis scoops her up, cooing and brushing their noses together. 

“Oh,” Harry says, struck dumb. To be fair, he’s a bit distracted by the unfairly adorable sight that is Louis Tomlinson cuddling a kitten bears a striking similarity to him. Honestly, he’s not too surprised Louis went out and spontaneously adopted another pet - it’s exactly the kind of thing he’d do. “When did this happen?” 

“This morning. Right after I got off my shift,” Louis says. “Got food and a litter box already too.” 

“Uneventful?” Harry says, dry. 

Louis ducks his head, blushing. “Are you okay with it?” he asks after a moment. “With cats, I mean. No allergies or resentment?”

Harry shakes his head. If anything, his feelings towards cats leaned towards indifference. He’s never been around them. 

“Just checking,” Louis murmurs, before holding Nibbles out expectantly. “You can say hello, you know.” 

Taking the cat gingerly, Harry tries to mimic the way Louis held her with his hands supporting the back legs and chest. “Hello,” he says, indulgently. 

Nibbles meows in response, eyeing him curiously.

It’s the first time he’s held a cat, and he’s not quite sure what to do. Five months ago, he had a similar experience meeting a dog - Clifford - for the first time. Pets are such a normalized and common aspect of so many people’s lives and Harry barely knows how to act around them. It’s yet another thing that separates him from most people - from _Louis_. Not that Louis has any idea. 

In Louis’ eyes, Harry is just quiet, antisocial even. ‘Stoic,’ is what he calls it, usually fond. It’s better now, Harry supposes. He’s gotten used to having conversations, at least with Louis. He’s gotten used to a lot of things only with Louis. 

Most notably, _touch._

When Louis places his hand on his arm, he doesn’t even react. Back in the beginning when they first started dating, Harry always tensed when Louis touched him, even on accident. He’s naturally tactile, first instincts to comfort and reassure and nurture, but Harry wasn’t familiar with such frequent physical contact, both romantic and platonic. It took him a while to get used to it and to _reciprocate_ it. When the initial unease finally waned off, Harry found that he actually enjoyed the act of touching… with Louis, at least. 

He’s found that Louis is often his exception. Even so, there are times where physical contact feels uncomfortable or suffocating. Where it feels like his skin is caked with blood and he just can’t let Louis get too close. It’s why he makes it a point to use terms of affection and other verbal reassurances on a regular basis, making sure Louis understands that what makes him shy away from cuddling or kissing on some nights has nothing to do with him. Still, he thinks Louis sometimes wonders. 

“Do you want to order takeout for dinner?” Louis asks, leaning into his side. 

The warmth bleeds from his skin to Harry’s through the fabric. Harry considers his current degree of comfort and decides he’s able to slide an arm across Louis’ waist, tugging him closer. “You choose,” he says, recalling the question. 

“I choose your favorite then,” Louis says.

Harry’s lips twitch. He knew that would happen. Louis always does it - picks things to make Harry happy. Except it seems to make _him_ happy too. It’s still surprising after all these months - Harry’s never met someone with such unselfish regard for someone else, especially when that someone is _him._

Louis tells him to find something to watch while he orders and Harry obliges. One thing that hasn’t changed over the past six months is his indifference to television and movies. He doesn’t understand the appeal of them, doesn’t get invested in them like Louis does - like most people do. 

But he pretends he does, just because it’s easier. 

There’s a lot of things he pretends to do - to _be_ \- to make things easier. Some part of him is holding out on the hope that one day he’ll have pretended so much that it becomes reality. 

Takeout arrives and they eat on the couch while watching some sitcom with actors that talk too loudly and over-exaggerate their every movement. Harry watches and stares and wonders how anyone would find this good. 

“It doesn’t have to be good,” Louis has told them in the past when Harry asked why he kept watching that one show even when the characters were annoying. “It just has to be distracting. Being annoyed at characters on the TV is easier than being annoyed with life.” 

Harry can’t really argue with that. 

“Are you staying over?” Louis asks somewhere closer to midnight. He’s slumped into Harry’s side, Nibbles curled up in his lap and eyes half-lidded as he blinks at the screen. The TV is still playing but at half-volume. 

“Can’t,” Harry admits, disappointment evident in his voice. “I have to wake up early tomorrow. Long drive.”

“Checking out a new location?” Louis asks, hand tracing over the veins on the hand Harry has placed over his thigh. 

“Yeah,” Harry breathes. In reality, he’ll be heading to Long Island for his rendezvous with mark Lara Carpenter. She doesn’t know that, of course. “I’ll be back for dinner.”

“Good,” Louis says, nuzzling into his shoulder. 

Even though he knew he’d have to when he arrived at the apartment hours ago, Harry still finds it excruciatingly difficult to leave Louis and return to his own cramped apartment. He doesn’t actually spend much time there in the first place, even before he met Louis. It was a stopping place between assignments, a storage room for extra supplies and equipment, a bridge between his two lives - he crosses it frequently but never lingers. 

Still, he forces himself to end the hug Louis initiated, clinging to him in that endearingly koala-like way as he always does. He kisses Louis on the mouth, quick and gentle. “See you tomorrow,” he says. 

“See you tomorrow,” Louis echoes, leaning up on his toes to kiss Harry again. 

This time it lingers. Harry’s hand finds the dip of Louis’ waist. Louis’ hand flattens against his heart. He’s the one to pull back, letting out a soft little sigh that makes Harry want to leave even less. 

“Go before I don’t let you,” he says, pouting.

“Bye,” Harry says, brushing his lips against Louis’ temple before stepping back and opening the door. “Remember to lock the door,” he adds, because he can never help himself. 

Rolling his eyes, Louis swats him in the chest. “I always do,” he says, giving Harry an exasperated look. Harry will keep reminding him anyway, and they both know it. 

With one last look, Harry steps out into the hallway and closes the door behind him, Louis’ smile lingering behind his eyelids as he makes his way down and out into the city again. 

{★}

_“You don’t talk very much, do you?” the ENP says._

_Harry doesn’t respond, further proving the assumption. Instead his eyes wander around the room, trailing over other patients with varying expressions of pain and panic on their faces and the figures in cobalt blue scrubs that match the scrubs of the nurse practitioner currently stitching him up. His name is Louis, according to his ID anyway._

_He’s never really been a fan of hospitals with their sterile atmosphere of panic and anxiety and frantic bustle of patients and providers. Coming to one is always something he tries to avoid, preferring his own first-aid or the services of the Guild if necessary. But today he didn’t really get a choice. Joyce is temporarily off-duty and the ugly gash curling up his upper arm isn’t something he has the means to take care of himself._

_The fact that he even has that gash is still a sore subject._

_Abigail Aurand had seemed like a simple enough target. Less complicated than some of his other marks this month. The only issue was that she’d apparently been tipped off to the bounty on her head because she seemed to have anticipated Harry’s arrival, disappearing from his sight under the cover of the pouring rain as he tailed her only to appear right behind him and slash a knife down his shoulder._

_She’d woefully underestimated what kind of assassin had been sent after her, clearly. Harry disarmed and then shot her within seconds, but his frustration at having been ambushed hasn’t faded. It’s not the first time a target has been alerted to their mark - most likely the work of underground contacts and loose ends in the Guild assignment-system - but it’s not often that they’ll actually get a hit on Harry._

_He’s a bit miffed about it, honestly, especially because she cut deep enough that he had no choice but to get it stitched up as soon as possible. He’s trying to be patient, really, but this visit is keeping him from returning to the Guild for completion verification and the longer the gap between kill and record, the lower the credibility. Still, he’s trying, channeling his agitation by tapping his foot and mapping out the area in his mind._

_At least Louis seems to sense his urgency, albeit confusedly. To him, Harry has just been mugged and knifed on his way home - a situation that warrants distress or shock, not impatience. Harry can’t find it in himself to even pretend he’s rattled by the whole thing - hopefully Louis will just chalk it up to New Yorker indifference. “Almost done,” Louis murmurs after a minute, continuing his sutures with steady and efficient hands._

Thank God, _Harry thinks, glancing at the clock. He should be back at his apartment now, assignment wrapped up and recorded._

_“I like your tattoo,” Louis says, jarring him out of his thoughts._

_He blinks, confused as he glances down. The cut is on his right upper arm which was a blessing because he’s got too much ink to potentially deform on his left, but that means Louis is talking about the single tattoo on his forearm. His wheel. “Thank you,” he forces himself to say, when really he has the urge to shove his sleeve down and cover it. It’s not like there’s thousands of assassins with matching tattoos passing through the emergency room on a regular basis for Louis to make a connection, but Harry has never been able to shake off his unease when anyone drew attention to the mark._

_Instead of dwelling, he turns his attention to Louis himself for the first time, assessing him quietly. It’s something he likes to do sometimes, observe and gauge the threat level of people around him - it helps him focus and keeps him sharp. He takes in the concentration etched across his face, brows furrowed and pink lips pursed. Every time he blinks, his long lashes brush his cheeks and Harry can admit he lingers on the sight just a tad too long._

_The thing is, Harry isn’t blind. He noticed that Louis was attractive from the start, possessing attributes that have always appealed to him: pretty eyes, delicate features, petite and lithe. He’s noticed these things with a detached sort of appreciation that he always has. Any further interest, after all, is ill-advised._

_Instead, his mind switches to cataloguing other observations. Louis is very precise and focused. He’s got good posture but there’s heavy tension in his shoulders and bags lining his eyes, undoubtedly the product of a long shift. He’s a lip biter… and a constant fidgeter? That assumption required more evidence, but Harry’s pretty sure from the way Louis shifts every few seconds in his seat._

_“Are you feeling alright?” Louis asks after a minute, meeting his eye briefly. He sounds like he genuinely cares about Harry’s answer._

_Harry nods._ A nurturer, _he thinks. Not uncommon for healthcare. He makes a few other observations as Louis finishes up the sutures and reaches for the bandage. He smells like something citrusy. He’s got a cluster of freckles on his left cheek. He’s wearing worn lavender vans - no socks - and there’s a small smiley face with x’s for eyes scrawled in sharpie over the toe of the right one. To the average person, he wouldn’t seem like much of a threat at all, but he clearly possesses invisible advantages in the form of intelligence, focus, advanced medical knowledge, as well an ease wielding sharp objects and tolerance to blood and injury. If he were in the business, he’d be what Aleksander calls an Oleander - pretty but poisonous._

_Thankfully things seem to move quickly then. He fiddles with the ring on his pinkie and listens as Louis instructs him to check the stitches periodically to make sure they’re holding and to clean away any crust. He tells him that he’ll need to schedule an appointment to get them out in ten days and then Harry goes through the discharge forms as fast as he can._

_“Have a good night,” Louis tells him when he hands them back, smiling brightly._

_Harry just nods. “You too.”_

_He walks out into the parking lot, pavement wet but rain having ceased, and then looks up at the night sky, knowing he’d never see the ENP again._

He was wrong. 

{★}

Ethan Giordano has a habit of late-night smokes on the roof deck of his penthouse, especially when he’s just come back from a dinner. 

It’s something Harry learned over the course of the past couple weeks, shadowing and observing him from afar. Giordano lives in a section of the Upper East Side that’s particularly reserved for people from his line of work. He’s got money and he flaunts it, dressing in designer brands and driving a different sports car for every day of the week. Harry’s only ever heard his name mentioned during events at the Continental but apparently Giordano is a known name in the underground.

That only serves to make Harry’s job more difficult. Not because his death would inspire outrage - there’s no loyalty down under, just fleeting camaraderie and paper-thin acquaintances - but because it means Giordano himself has probably prepared for a situation like this. Hence the bodyguards and recent decrease in sightings and outings. 

The contracts Harry receives always have the client censored, but the six-digit bounty price that falls higher on the spectrum tells him that this is a vengeance case - retribution for the wrongs he’s committed. And he’s committed a lot of them. Harry feels no sympathy for him tonight, watching him carefully from the roof of another building. The first floor of this building consists of office spaces for lease so Harry rented one out under one of the Guild’s fronting companies and showed up as a representative earlier today. With a layout of the building he received from the Cartographer and a few chosen arms from the Sommelier, he was able to make his way up to the roof without any difficulty. 

Now he surveys Giordano who’s perched on a lawn chair by the edge of the roof, smoke from his cigarette curling up into the evening sky. Since it’s June, it’s still light out at seven o'clock. It’ll remain that way for an hour or so but Harry is still masked from his carefully chosen position behind a row of shrubs. 

He grips his rifle - a non-lethal Italian model that they have in limited supply - and tucks the butt of the weapon up between his shoulder and collarbone, hands curving around the grip and the hand-guard. He activates the sight system, finding those two red dots in the viewer as he narrows in on the target. 

Giordano’s sniper is a sharp contrast from his bodyguard counterparts, lanky and pigeon-toed. Harry’s seen the footage in the Archives though. He knows Parker’s scarily effective with a M107, the very weapon clutched in his spindly hands as Harry eyes him. Allen Parker is his name. He doesn’t work 24/7 like the other two do, only needed in the evenings when Giordano planned on leaving the security of his penthouse. 

Hiring a sniper implies a heavy paranoia that only a man like Giordano - a man with too many enemies - could possess. Still, even though Parker’s counterparts are bigger and broader, he is the most dangerous obstacle in Harry’s way.

Which is why Harry is focusing on him first. He watches the red dots align to Parker’s height, locating the exact right position on Parker’s body for him to shoot. He rests his finger on the trigger, watching for the best moment.

Parker seems restless, shifting from foot to foot as he scans the immediate surroundings. His eyes drift over Harry’s concealed spot but don’t linger. He’s acting careless - sloppy. It may or may not have anything to do with the fact that he’s heavily inebriated, reflexes slowed and vision blurred. 

Any bodyguard could tell you that being drunk on the job is a serious infraction so Harry was surprised to discover that Parker has gotten away with it time and time again, most notably every Friday evening before showing up for his shift. Then again, he’s not the typical sort of bodyguard either. Independent contractor while the brutes behind him are most likely Sentinel hires; chosen for his skills, not his professionalism. 

It makes Harry’s job a lot easier. He watches the two red dots align, valves adjusting the amount of kinetic energy for the impending shot for prime survival chances. He wants to incapacitate, not murder. He waits a breath, and then squeezes. 

The sound, though significantly less than a lethal arm, rings out in the air. Even louder is Parker’s strangled cry of pain, gun clattering to the deck as he clutches his hand to his chest. Harry watches him stagger back, crashing to the ground as he howls in pain. 

Giordano is on his feet in seconds, alarmed and panicked. The other two men flank him, guns raised and eyes scanning for the threat. 

However, they’re only carrying AR-15s which means they can’t do anything as Harry angles for his next shot. Buzzcut goes down first, crumpling after a shot to the foot. The remaining guard switches immediately into retreat mode, yanking Giordano behind him as they head for the door. 

Harry’s turn. 

He tugs his mask up and over his face and then discards the rifle, vaulting over the edge of the roof and sliding down the shingled hip before taking a running leap off the side of the building. His hands slam into the edge of Giordano’s deck, wood cutting into his palms, and he pulls himself up and over. His hand goes for his holster and the dart gun inside of it, pressing the trigger right as Freckles tries to shut the door. 

The bullet embeds into the back of his hand and he roars in pain. Unlike how it’s shown in the movies, the full effects of a tranquilizer shot take up to a few minutes to register. However, it does automatically slow your senses, meaning Harry has the upper hand when the man fumbles for his rifle. Harry springs towards him, knocking the gun from his grip before he can fire. He gets a fist to his jaw for his efforts, stumbling back as pain erupts in the right side of his face. 

Amidst the chaos, Giordano yanks the door open, making his escape for the time being. Harry weighs his options and decides that he needs to save time. He goes for the knife strapped to the inside of his boot and then barrels into his opponent who’s slowly losing coherence. An arm wraps around Harry’s neck, constricting his airflow, but he’s still the one with the knife. Stabbing the bodyguard right before he passes out from the drugs would be fatal so Harry settles for slashing him down the arm, blade tearing through layers of clothing. 

The hold around his neck eases and he races for the door, unsurprised that Giordano didn’t think about locking it before bolting with his tail between his legs. He does take the extra second to lock it, doubtful that any of the three men will be coming after him so soon but never one to tempt fate. 

Then he takes in the penthouse, eyes roaming over the minimalist decor and open layout. That brief pause is enough distraction that he nearly misses the click of a gun. He whirls to the right just in time for Giordano to press the trigger. 

His back hits the door painfully, knob digging into his lower back. It takes a second for him to catch his breath but he’s taken enough bullets to the chest to be able to multitask, scrambling for his Glock 19 as Giordano tries to run again. 

That’s the thing with people who have no idea what they’re doing - they automatically go for the heart first, forgetting that bulletproof vests might be hiding under a shirt and the head is always the best bet. 

Harry shoots the gun right out of Giordano’s hand, leaving him unarmed and roaring in pain as he clutches his bleeding hand to his stomach. 

“He sold me out, didn’t he?” Giordano spits, stalling like Baros did - like _everyone_ does. 

Eager to get this over with now, Harry stalks towards him. He drops his gun, evoking a look of surprise on Giordano’s face that evaporates as soon as he pulls out his knife again, still stained red with blood. 

“You’re him,” he says next, voice heavy with fear. “Koschei.” 

It’s not the first time a victim has recognized him by his reputation - especially for someone running in the same circles like Giordano. It’s probably the knife that gave him away. Not many assassins choose to utilize blades for actual assignments but Harry’s been training with knives for over a decade, as comfortable wielding one as he is with a gun. 

Giordano makes one final attempt at escaping, but Harry cuts him off, knife sinking into the wood of his wall. He yanks it out as Giordano scrambles back, hands raising in surrender. 

“Please,” he begs, voice cracking around the word. “Please, no.” 

That just makes Harry angry. Men like Giordano don’t care about the word no and what it means until they’re begging for their pitiful lives. He closes in on him, brandishing his knife as if it’s a sword. He flicks the knife out and Giordano just barely evades the tip, still blubbering pleads as fat tears stream down his face. Harry doesn’t even falter. 

Guns may objectively be the most effective weapon, but he’s always appreciated the mechanics of knives - their underrated brutality and the control he has over every strike. On his next plunge, Giordano grabs his wrist right before the blade meets his stomach. 

Rookie mistake. Without pause, Harry yanks his arm down, blade turned toward skin. Giordano screams, stumbling back as crimson pools in the palm of his already injured hand. Harry grabs his arm, wrenching it back until he hears a crunch, and then stabs him in the chest. 

Giordano’s eyes bulge like a fish as blood soaks his front, body dropping to the floor and falling slack. He’s not dead quite yet, but at this rate of blood loss, he will be soon. 

And Harry just stands and waits, listening to his pained and pitiful whimpers. He has no sympathy for men like him, nothing but satisfaction and contentment that the world is safer from one more vile monster curling in his gut. 

It takes him a moment to realize that Giordano is speaking. “They’re coming for you, Koschei,” he croaks, voice caked with pain. Harry stills. “They’re -” Giordano goes still, words echoing in the air long after his blood goes cold. 

{★}

Harry goes through the motions of completing the assignment in a daze, taking a quick shower and letting the hot water wash the metallic smell of blood off his body. There’s a slight bruise on his chest from the impact of the bullet which will fade in a couple of days and some scrapes on his palms from the roof but he’s otherwise unscathed. 

He steps back out onto the streets with hands shoved into his pockets, pausing to pull out his phone to check the time. It’s eleven o’clock and he hasn’t had dinner yet. More importantly, Louis will be getting off his shift in one short hour. 

Just thinking about his smile and his presence is enough to lift Harry’s mood a bit. He’s feeling off for some reason, more bothered by the events tonight than he normally is. There’s really only one key reason why: four words replaying over and over in his head. _They’re coming for you._

It’s not the first time one of his marks has used their last few moments of life to curse him out or damn his existence. He’s been told he’s a child of the devil dozens of times along with a number of less tasteful names. Spit at, sobbed on, lectured he’d meet the wrath of many different Gods. But for some reason, Giordano’s words are grating on him. He thinks it has something to do with Giordano using his name - his codename, at least. 

His identity is technically protected - none of his victims have ever seen his face and his true name is confined to the head of the Guild and the head of his branch - Aleksander and Oz. There’s no basis for him to actually be concerned by a dead man’s desperate taunts. 

Yet he’s still irrationally bothered by it. He doesn’t like being blindsided - prefers to be the blindsider - and he’s never felt this odd after a mark. 

He takes the subway, blending in now that he’s changed his clothes into jeans and a sweatshirt. He observes the people around him like he always does, determining threat levels of all the passengers around him from the group of chatty college students crowding by the doors to the silent and pensive elderly woman knitting what appears to be a sweater in the seat across from him. As he watches, he rubs the ring on his pinkie absently. 

From his stop, Louis’ apartment is only a block down and he walks leisurely and alertly. In the beginning, Harry had avoided seeing Louis after a killing as much as possible - too paranoid, and maybe too ashamed. But now he naturally gravitates towards Louis after every assignment, seeking the warmth of his smile and the comfort of his small apartment. 

It’s not midnight yet by the time he arrives so he uses the key Louis entrusted him less than a month ago and lets himself in. Clifford immediately runs up to greet him and Harry pets him indulgently, having now mastered the art thanks to careful observation of Louis’ methods and extensive practice. He and Cliff have a fond understanding now. 

Nibbles, on the other hand, is still a work in progress. Harry still doesn’t quite understand her. She’s aloof and repellant to any sort of touch one minute and then mewling for attention the next. Attention Louis is always happy to give. One day they’ll have an understanding too, he tells himself. If only for Louis’ sake. 

The apartment always feels so different when Louis isn’t here - a little less illuminated, a little less alive. But Harry can still feel all the tension drain from his body as he makes his way to the kitchen. Louis will be hungry after he gets off his shift. 

Cooking was something Anya started teaching him between classes at the Akademiya when he was around thirteen, maybe fourteen. The school had been small then, just Harry and ten other students. Anya always called them ‘pups.’ _One day you’ll become wolves._ Most classes were one-on-one but they still spent a lot of time training together, the concept of mercy nonexistent. They tore at each other like enemies, wild and feral. Not pups but wolves. 

And when they eventually graduated, every single one of them chose to ascend to the Guild. Really, there was never any consideration - this was all any of them knew. They joined the ranks of the Stratos and Harry never saw any of his fellow wolves again. He thinks it’s for the better. 

Louis pads into the kitchen half an hour later after a quick shower, eyes bleary and figure hunched with exhaustion. His eyes light up when Harry places the plate of pancakes - banana and hazelnut - on the table, still warm from the pan. “You’re a life-send,” he murmurs, slumping into his chair. 

Harry doesn’t reply, just leans down to press his lips to the top of Louis’ head. Thanks to a shower, the ever-present citrus scent from Louis’ body wash is strongly radiating from him. It seeps into Harry’s senses, making him feel content for the first time today. 

Stuffing a bite into his mouth, Louis grabs Harry’s hand and tugs him to sit down too. Harry obliges, holding his hand out on the table and letting Louis play with his rings. He never wears them during his kills - considers them another facet to separate him from his career. Harry and Koschei, two distinct entities. It’s what he tries to tell himself anyway. 

Clifford comes over to nudge his head into Louis’ knee under the table and Louis runs his hand through his fur, talking to him and telling him he’s the best boy. Harry just sits back with one hand still linked with Louis’ and breathes.

When he’s with Louis, nothing else matters. Not Giordano, not Aleksander or the Guild, nothing. Just them. 

“I’m sorry I’m such a spoilsport these days but all I want to do is lay down right now,” Louis admits when he finishes his pancakes. He’s pouting, clearly disappointed in himself. 

“It’s fine,” Harry says, unsure how to tell Louis that there’s nothing more he could want than to sleep beside him. “I’m tired too.” 

Louis lets out a sigh. “We’re getting old!” he exclaims, sounding tired but happy. He insists on washing his own dishes so Harry fiddles with the air conditioning and then goes to brush his teeth. 

They both get ready for bed quietly. Harry startles when Louis breaks the silence with a gasp. 

“What happened?” he asks, eyes wide.

Harry finishes shrugging his shirt off, confused. His gaze follows Louis’ to his chest and it hits him: the bruise. It somehow completely slipped his mind, separate entities indeed. “There was an accident,” he says vaguely, practically seeing the gears turn in Louis’ head as he switches into care-mode.

“Let me put something on it at least,” he says, and Harry reluctantly agrees. He’s lucky it’s not too big or Louis would have more questions. He sits down on the bed and waits until Louis returns with aloe vera, not even hesitating before climbing up onto Harry’s lap. He dips his fingers into the container and then rubs the green ointment into Harry’s skin. 

It doesn’t hurt super bad but Harry tenses from the coldness of the cream, fingers flexing where they’re wrapped around Louis’ hip to keep him balanced. Louis pats his abdomen, continuing to lather the ointment on. 

“Lou,” Harry says, suddenly feeling like he’s toeing dangerous territory with Louis warm and malleable in his lap, small hands touching his skin. As tempting as the idea is, Louis is tired and needs to sleep. “Is that enough?”

“Yeah... I just like touching your abs,” Louis says in reply, completely straight-faced when he lifts his head to look at Harry. 

“Ah,” Harry says. The corners of his lips tug up before he realizes it, smile small but undeniable.

Louis notices immediately, almost preening as he reaches up to cup the side of his face. “I love it when you smile at me,” he murmurs. 

Harry turns his face to kiss the center of his palm, lips lingering. “You’re the one making me smile,” he murmurs, because he can’t say _I only smile for you._

“I love making you smile,” Louis amends, setting the cream down to wrap his arms around Harry’s neck. 

He indulges it, sliding his arm around Louis’ back and feeling the heat from his skin bleed through his thin nightshirt. He never understood - before Louis, that is - how moments could feel _soft._ His life has been a steady stream of sharp edges and cold cutted shapes. But he thinks he gets it now - that feeling of everything slowing down and getting fuzzy. The warm feeling in his chest. Everything laced with gentleness. 

And he’s found that he likes it. 

They eventually shuffle into bed, facing each other with hands tangled between their stomachs. 

“Hi,” Louis whispers when they’ve both gotten settled.

“Hi,” Harry echoes, feeling Louis squeeze his hand.

Louis’ shifts a bit closer to him in the bed, knees brushing his thighs. “How was your day?” 

“Fine,” Harry says, detailed as ever. “You?”

“Fine,” Louis parrots, but it’s not mocking. “Lots of broken bones today. What’d you work on today?” 

“Some paperwork,” Harry says vaguely. “Went with Paul to check out a location. A high school.” 

“A high school,” Louis echoes. “What film is it?” It’s a simple question, but Harry can hear the weight in his voice. The tinge of expectation for something beyond. 

The tinge that means he’s asking for something Harry can’t give. “It’s nothing special. Just a small-budget indie film like usual,” he says after a tense moment, halted and scratchy. His non-answer sinks between them, heavy like lead. Technically, the Guild has the infrastructure in place for upholding lies. If Harry wanted, he could take Louis to his “workplace,” and even introduce him to his “coworkers.” He could watch a movie made especially for this cause and pretend he helped scout locations for it. He could, but he never does, because all it does is expand the already big lie. It helps his guilt and his mind to keep his fibs to a minimum even if that means more skepticism and problems in the long-run. 

That doesn’t mean the problems aren’t difficult either. The only reply Louis gives him is a small, “Oh.” And Harry can’t actually see it in the dark but he knows it’s there: the little frown on his face. Resigned and disappointed. 

He can’t see it but he feels it scrape against his skin and bleed into guilt. It’s not the first time and it certainly won’t be the last. Instead of saying something, he just reaches out and wraps an arm around Louis’ waist, tugging him forward. He goes easily, nuzzling into his chest and letting out a soft exhale.

They don’t talk about it. The way Harry deflects any and all questions about his past and Louis pretends he isn’t confused or hurt by it. The way Harry keeps a distance between them and Louis acts like he can’t see it creating a wall between them. The way Harry doesn’t always answer honestly and Louis goes along with it as if he can’t tell. They don’t talk about it.

Seven months. Nearing seven months is how long they’ve been together, and they’ve been playing that game for almost all of it. Harry knows Louis feels like he doesn’t know him well enough, and it pains him. It pains him every time Louis gets that look on his face that’s a mixture of disappointment, frustration, and confusion. And sometimes, self-blame. It pains him because Louis is _wrong._

Because even though there _is_ a lot Louis doesn’t know about him, there is so much that he does. He knows what Harry is like at his most vulnerable: curled up on this bed with him in the dark where it’s safest. He knows Harry in a way no one else does. 

Harry likes to think he knows the same of Louis. They fit into each other in a way he didn’t know was possible. He’s never been the best at connecting with people - never really needed the skill in general - but he’s always in tune with Louis and his feelings. And Louis has a scarily accurate intuition about Harry and his feelings too.

It’s in the way he knows when Harry needs space and when he doesn’t. The way he can read through Harry’s clipped answers and impassive expressions and find emotion in their hardened planes. The way he takes what he sees and uses it to comfort Harry when he’s lingering in the past, distract him when he’s too deep in his own head, or keep his distance when Harry just needs to be alone with his demons. He may not know the context or reasoning behind Harry’s moods, but he cares anyway. 

He wonders what Louis sees in him - what he sees that makes him think Harry deserves this sort of affection and care. It’s something he thinks about a lot-hen Louis lets Harry lay his head in his lap and runs his hands through his hair as they sit in comfortable silence, when he cooks for him or orders his favorite takeout or makes him smile, or when he trusts Harry with his apartment and his pets, with his time, with his body. Harry wonders how someone as lovely as Louis could think he deserves all of that care. 

Especially when Louis has not only trusted him with all of those things, but with his heart. Harry has never been in possession of anything more precious. 

Still, all of it just serves to worsen the ugly fester of guilt inside him. Guilt because Louis trusts him with so much but Harry can never trust him with the truth. He can never share the other, darker part of his life with him. Koschei, Aleksander, the Guild… the blood on his hands. Louis can never know. 

As much as Harry can see he keeps it a secret because he wants to protect Louis - he does, more than he can even explain - he also knows that there’s a bigger reason. That reason is that he’s _afraid._ He’s afraid that if Louis knew who he really was, he’d run for the hills. Who would willingly date an assassin? A murderer? He’d want nothing to do with Harry and then Harry would lose the best thing that’s ever happened to him. 

Selfish. He’s selfish, and he knows it. He knew from the beginning that pursuing something with anyone would be complicated and messy, and he knew that it was ill-advised and frowned upon for a reason. But he still did it anyway. He said yes and now he’s hooked - on Louis and on the soft moments. He can’t let them go anymore, so he can’t tell Louis the truth. 

So Harry deflects, Louis pretends, and the secrets that are to remain buried lay deep in the ground. 

{★}

_The Rink at Bryant Park and accompanying Winter Market is one of those quintessential New York points of interest during the months of November through March. Over the weekends, it’s consistently packed with people - masses of kids giggling and chasing each other on the ice, newbies clinging to the wood barriers with all their might as they inch their way around the rink, and couples gliding over the white with linked hands and cheeks red from not just the cold._

_It’s the kind of place Harry steers well away from, but he does occasionally find himself in the mood to dig his pair of skates out of the closet and make the venture to Bryant Park during one of its slower hours._

_Thursday at ten in the morning is when Harry acts on one of those urges, tying up his laces before making his way to the ice. The Winter Market is picking up steam around lunch as it always is, but the rink itself is practically empty, just a few lone figures milling on the ice all the way across the rink._

_They’re here for essentially the same reason as Harry: to skate… in peace. Harry starts off at a leisurely pace, inching towards the center of the rink and far off from other people. On instinct, he shortens his glides and maintains a more expected speed for the average skater. The more inconspicuous, the better._

_It’s been about half an hour when Harry first sees him._

_Louis._

_He’s honestly surprised that the name has stuck with him even if it’s only been a couple weeks. But Harry remembers him distinctly. He’s not alone, talking animatedly with a woman as they make their way into the rink, rented skates on their feet. He hasn’t seen Harry, though Harry is unsure if he’d even recognize him._

_Still, he debates discreetly taking his leave. It’s honestly ridiculous that he’s crossed paths with Louis again so soon in crawling Manhattan. Harry’s always loved the security of living somewhere that’s bursting with people, one speck out of many. He’s relied on the anonymity living here has provided, and seeing a stranger twice in a short period of time contradicts that._

_Deciding to instead try to remain as unassuming as possible, he resumes his skating and keeps his head ducked. Oz always goes on about how Harry has an unforgettable face - a disadvantage in their line of work - and Harry keeps that in mind as he glances at Louis out of the corner of his eye._

_Thankfully, Louis seems pretty consumed with his conversation and company that he pays little attention to his surroundings. Harry takes a moment to observe his skating skills. He’s got some experience, obviously someone who skates a few times every year with friends but nothing beyond a basic level of mastery._

_Harry returns to his own thoughts, mind drifting from hazy memories of winters past skating at the Akademiya to the repeating information about his next target. His name is John Simmons and his last day of life is currently slated for Saturday - a classic infiltrate & eliminate measure. _

_Time seems nonexistent as Harry loses track of how many rounds he takes. The signal for ice resurfacing is the only thing that snaps him out of his reverie and he diligently follows everyone else off the ice as the zamboni begins its work._

_Knowing it’ll be anywhere from fifteen to thirty minutes, Harry figures that it’s a good time to call it quits. He’s beginning to get hungry anyway._

_A cleared throat pulls him from his thoughts._

_He turns to see Louis standing beside him, bundled up in a sweater two sizes too big for him and cheeks reddened from the cold. His skates are dangling from his hand, blades dripping water onto the ground._

_“Hi,” he chirps, eyes bright blue - a sharp contrast to the graying sky._

_Harry blinks. “Hi,” he echoes - a bit late, a bit dumbly._

_Louis eyes him curiously. “You remember me, right? I’m the one that stuck a needle in your skin and sewed you up,” he says, a hint of teasing in his tone._

_“I remember,” Harry murmurs, amused._

_“Good. It’d be awkward if you didn’t,” Louis says. His eyes flicker over to Harry’s right arm, hidden beneath his coat and shirt. “How’s your arm?”_

_“Fine,” Harry says. He got his stitches out five days ago and the wound has pretty much faded completely. It was just a slash, after all. “Thanks to you.”_

_“I’m glad,” Louis says, smiling at him. Harry doesn’t return it - doesn’t even know why Louis is trying to talk to him in the first place - but Louis seems undeterred. “Do you skate a lot? I saw you on the rink and you’ve clearly got skills.”_

_He’s good at skating because he was trained in it - not officially like everything else, but any lesson Aleksander has bestowed upon him could only ever be categorized as training. One more facet to making Harry into the best he can be. “It’s a hobby,” he says instead, shrugging._

_“Meanwhile, I’m a danger to society when I get on the ice,” Louis says, not self-deprecatingly. “I prefer my knives in my hands instead of on my feet, I suppose.”_

_“Funny,” Harry says, raising a brow._

_“Was it?” Louis says, nose scrunching up. “You didn’t laugh.”_

_Harry can’t tell if Louis is bothered or entertained. “I don’t laugh much,” he says, honest._

_“That’s a shame,” Louis says, tilting his head. “Laughing is good for you.”_

_“Is it?” Harry mimics. It just slips out, surprising even himself._

_Louis grins at him, wide and bright. “Ah, but you do have a humor! A man of many secrets.”_

_A man of many secrets. Harry just hums something noncommittal. He’s still not fully sure what’s going on. This is the longest conversation he’s had with someone outside of Aleksander and Oz in months, and the realization is a bit jarring._

_Naturally, his first instinct is to get the hell away from there. He clears his throat, glancing around. “I saw you skating with a friend earlier…”_

_“Oh, Chelsea?” Louis says, not getting the hint. “She's another nurse, actually. She has a lot of paperwork so she ditched me.” He pauses to bite his lip. “I was thinking about getting lunch.”_

_“It is lunchtime,” Harry nods, wondering why his ability to be subtle decided to suddenly and pathetically fail him now._

_“Exactly. Uh… I hope I’m not being too forward,” Louis begins, and Harry watches the way his cheeks fill with more color as he continues. “But would you maybe like to tag along?”_

_Harry blinks, the realization that Louis is asking him out settling within him excruciatingly slow. Louis is actually asking him out - a reticent stranger._ No, _he thinks. He can’t have lunch with Louis. He’s busy. He’s already had lunch. He’s straight up not interested. A dozen different excuses filter through his brain, ready at the tip of his tongue._

_But… But he looks at Louis who’s avoiding eye contact, cheeks completely red now and his fingers nervously fiddling with the hem of his sweater. Definitely a fidgeter._

_“Okay,” he says, a bit abruptly._

_Louis’ head snaps up, eyes wide and surprised. “Really?” he exclaims, like he hadn’t been expecting Harry to accept._

Harry _hadn’t been expecting Harry to accept. It just came out, crystallizing in the air before he could think it over properly. A spontaneous lapse in judgement. A possible error of massive extremes. He’s not sure what’s gotten into him._

_“I’ve eaten around here a lot so there’s a few places we can go,” Louis rushes, still looking a bit flustered still. He starts describing a few potential cafes and restaurants but Harry only half hears him, wondering if there’s still a chance to back out without looking like an asshole._

_It shouldn’t even matter how he comes off. He doesn’t know Louis and Louis doesn’t know him -_ shouldn’t _know him. Harry backtracking now would be for his sake. After all, an asshole will always be preferable to an assassin._

_Assassins don’t typically go on dates. The great Koschei definitely doesn’t go on dates._

_But for some reason he doesn’t say no. He waits for Louis to return his skates and get his stuff then they walk through the park together. Louis fills the air with nervous chatter and Harry tells himself that one date is harmless, that nothing needs to come of it, over and over again until it’s ingrained in his head._

_They have lunch at a bakery-cafe that’s a few minutes’ walk away. Harry is surprised by how much he enjoys it. He doesn’t like eating out or making small talk or listening to people talk about their lives that are always so vastly different from his, but he still somehow enjoys it. He enjoys_ Louis.

_He adds a lot to his list of observations too. Louis is twenty-five. He’s someone that reads the menu thoroughly even when he’s been to the location previously. He hums under his breath when a song he likes comes on - Harry is sure it’d be full-on singing if he were alone. He likes tea, not coffee. When he laughs particularly loudly, he brings a hand up to cover his mouth. It’s more endearing than it has any right to be._

_After, Harry mechanically inputs his number into Louis’ phone, wondering how he ended up here in this situation._

_“I had a nice time,” Louis says, the two of them dawdling on the sidewalk outside the bakery as people mill past them and the city keeps spinning. His skin is a bit flushed, sleeves of his sweater pulled over his fingers, shifting his weight from foot to foot._

_“I did too,” Harry says, and he means it._

_They say hushed goodbyes and go their separate ways with nothing but lingering glances._

_Harry returns to his apartment and promptly passes out on his bed, sleeping off the last few hours and any thoughts of blue eyes and pretty smiles. Louis is beautiful, but he was a stranger too. Harry will let things fade away naturally and then he’ll forget all about Louis and their date._

He didn’t realize back then just how impossible that would prove to be. 

{★}

Louis is naturally an optimistic and lighthearted person. He’s intelligent and hardworking and he always looks for the bright side of things. He’s in tune with his emotions and he feels all emotions so deeply. When he’s happy, he’s the personification of sunshine, incandescent and spreading warmth wherever he goes. It’s almost as if the world is in tune with him, everything a bit brighter when Louis is smiling. 

In contrast, when Louis is sad, it feels like the world has gone dark. Harry can feel it when he steps into Louis’ apartment, noticing that Louis’ shoes have been discarded haphazardly by the door instead of neatly placed in his shoe rack like usual. He finds Louis in the living room, eyes unfocused as he stares at nothing in the distance. He’s freshly showered, hair dripping water onto the armrest where he has his head propped up, arms curled around his middle in a way that suggests protection and comfort. 

Harry pauses for a moment, taking in the unhappy lines of Louis’ face and the way the corners of his lips are tugged down. Perhaps the most telling piece of evidence to Louis’ current mood is that he hasn’t reacted to Harry’s arrival despite Harry making no efforts to be subtle. 

“Baby,” he says, frowning when even that doesn’t snap Louis out of his daze. He moves to crouch down beside the couch, brushing his fingers through Louis’ fringe. “Are you alright?”

He watches Louis close his eyes, suddenly looking so small and fragile in his worn sweats and a shirt two sizes too big for him. An urge to scoop him up and take him straight to bed overtakes Harry but he resists. He needs to discern the root of the problem first. 

“I’m okay,” Louis says after a minute, words disjointed like it’s difficult to talk. “Just had a bad day at work.” Harry immediately knows what he’s referring to. As long as he’s known Louis, he’s known about the ongoing struggle consisting of challenging the underappreciation of nurses at his hospital. It’s a lot more complicated than that though - there’s a deep animosity between NPs and MDs regardless of both sides trying to stay in their lanes. There’s also a cruel hierarchy among the nurses themselves and a hostility to both newbies and newcomers. Louis has ranted about all of it plenty of times and cried about it a couple instances too. 

It seems pointless to ask if he wants to rant about it some more now since he clearly doesn’t but Harry still wants to help somehow. “I’m here,” is what he settles on. “I’m here for you.” 

“Hold me?” Louis asks, and when he opens his eyes, they’re wet. 

Insides contracting in sorrow, Harry nods jerkily. He slides onto the couch in the small space left beside Louis, ignoring any discomfort in favor of wrapping his arms around Louis and tugging him close.

Time passes but Harry doesn’t know how much. The steady puffs of air against his neck from Louis’ breathing is his only form of measurement. He thinks Louis dozes off for a bit and he might have too but they’re both awake when Louis slides a hand under his shirt, fingers trailing down his chest slowly. 

“We should have sex,” he says, musing.

Harry gently grips his wrist before his hand strays too low, taken aback by the sudden change in mood. “You’re upset,” he says.

“Sex releases dopamine,” Louis says, shoulders hunching up in a shrug. “Dopamine makes us happy.” 

He shakes his head, gentle. Louis pouts. “No sex,” he says. He’s not in the mood for that right now. “But…” 

His hand snakes past the elastic of Louis’ sweatpants, fingers skimming the top of his arse. He may be in the mood for something else. 

Now, Harry knows he isn’t exactly the most sentimental man. He has trouble voicing his emotions unless he really tries and he’s never been good at comforting people either - never really had to be, frankly. But he is great at something, and that’s making Louis feel good. “Let me take care of you,” he whispers. 

Louis closes his eyes with a soft little sigh. Nods. 

Harry is careful as he gets up and then curls his arms around Louis and hoists him up. Louis’ head drops to his shoulder as his arms wind around his neck and legs lock around his middle. Harry finds it fascinating how Louis always clings to him like a koala, needily and borderline painful at times. He buries his nose in Harry’s neck like he doesn’t want to let go. Harry holds him that much tighter in response. 

The bedroom door shuts with a soft thump as Harry closes it behind them, walking towards the bed where he sets Louis down carefully. 

A soft gasp escapes Louis’ mouth when Harry curls his fingers into the fabric of his pants, sparking low in his stomach. He tugs the material down, exposing the soft skin of his thighs. The smell of citrus gets even stronger and Harry breathes it in as he continues to undress Louis, hands gentle as he maneuvers him onto his front. Louis goes easily, melting into the sheets. Harry strips off his jacket and shirt too, knowing the room is going to feel ten times hotter very soon. 

Then, for a moment, Harry just sits back and admires. 

Louis is a vision laid out before him, skin tanned and soft, face buried in the pillow of his arms. All delicate planes and curves. He’s beautiful. 

He’s also tense, a strain in his shoulders and a quiver in his thighs when Harry’s eyes wander to them. Harry tries to erase it, smoothing his hands down his sides and then pressing his lips to the nape of his neck and tracing a path down his spine to the dimples in his lower back.

Tender touches never used to be in his vocabulary, but there’s something about Louis that just makes it so easy. Harry drags his lips down Louis’ skin, skimming over the swell of his ass - featherlight, teasing - before mouthing at the skin of his thighs. 

The sound Louis lets out when Harry scrapes his teeth against the inner muscle is small and high, half caught in the back of his throat. Desperate. It sinks into Harry, burning red hot through his blood.

“On your knees,” he says, voice rough. Even though it was a command, he still helps Louis up anyway, biting his lip when Louis arches his back, pushing his hips back as he presses his face into his arms even harder. Finally, Harry curls his hands around Louis’ hips, fingers pressing into his ass and spreading his cheeks to expose his entrance. 

Harry leans in slowly, feeling Louis tense when his breath fans out over his rim. He’s always been so responsive, reacting to even the smallest of things. Harry is entranced by it.

His first lick is quick and fleeting, just getting a taste. However, Louis _jolts_ in the bed, letting out a choked sound. Harry holds him steady with palms around his hips, thumbs keeping him open. 

He flattens his tongue against Louis’ rim and drags it down his perineum slowly, feeling him quiver - stuck between pulling away and pushing into it. Soon he’ll be writhing in the sheets, begging and pleading Harry for more. 

Until then, he goes slow. Long, lingering licks over Louis’ hole, not dipping in at any point. Everything else fades away around them, nothing clear but the needy sounds pulled from Louis’ lips and the taste of soap and skin heavy on his tongue, citrus thick in his nose. An ache develops in his jaw but he barely notices.

Louis is shaking when Harry draws back to give him a moment to recover, mouthing at the tops of his thighs and leaving blooms of red in his wake. 

“More,” Louis mumbles finally, pushing his hips back into Harry’s face.

Harry noses up the crease of his ass, lips parting over his entrance as if kissing it hello. He decides to be merciful, tip of his tongue dipping in past the ring of muscle. Louis mewls, rocking back into it.

From there, Harry eats Louis out like a man starved, lapping and licking at his hole with fervor. Fingers leaving imprints on his cheeks, spit soaking skin until it's all wet, jaw straining as he tongues in deeper and deeper, feeling him open up to let Harry in. The longer he goes, the laxer Louis gets, so far gone that he’s letting out a stream of incoherent sounds, small and desperate. 

No matter how many times Harry does this, he will never get tired of how Louis is rendered into a pile of whimpers and rosy skin. 

He can tell when Louis is close by the way his knees go weak, body being supported by Harry’s hands alone. His sounds become muffled around a mouthful of fabric as he mouths at the sheets.

And Harry urges him on by renewing his efforts, sucking and nipping at his rim until he’s a blubbering mess. “C’mon, baby,” he coaxes, voice like gravel. 

What finally pushes Louis over is Harry’s index finger, pad of it teasing at his hole alongside Harry’s tongue. 

Louis always loud, loud, loud during sex, except for when he comes. When he comes, it’s as if his vocal cords stop working, all sounds cutting out into a silent gasp as he quakes and falls apart. 

Harry curls his arms around him and holds him through it, pressing kisses to his shoulder and nape as he presses Louis to his chest. When Louis goes slack, he carefully maneuvers him onto his back on a clean side of the bed. 

He looks wrecked, fringe matted to his face and skin flushed. Tears stain his cheeks, stomach rising and falling distinctly as he tries to catch his breath. Streaks of white coat his lower stomach. He always comes so much from having Harry’s mouth on him. 

His eyes flutter open, wide and glassy. He looks lost, bitten lips parted and ribs expanding with every breath. Harry leans in to drop a kiss to his temple, skin bit beneath his now chapped lips. Then he joins their lips, letting Louis taste himself as he licks languidly into his mouth for a minute. 

“Good, so good,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to Louis’ wet cheeks and forehead next. He knows Louis likes the praise when he gets like this, loose and pliant and spent. He’s vulnerable and defenseless, relying on reassurance that Harry gives him in spades. “My precious angel.” 

Louis’ cheeks are so flushed already but they redden even further at the compliments. He tries to hide it, pressing his face into Harry’s chest shyly. He does it every time and it never fails to evoke a rush of affection in Harry. Louis is just so… lovely. 

It’s hard to pull himself away but he does it, grabbing a rag from the bathroom to clean him off. Now that he’s successfully pleasured Louis, Harry is extremely aware of his own arousal, tenting up at the fabric of his gym shorts. He’ll deal with it… but not yet. 

“Thank you,” Louis mumbles when Harry finishes wiping him down. “For always taking care of me.” 

Harry kisses his temple, then his lips. “My pleasure,” he says, honest. 

As always after a good orgasm, Louis ends up drifting off, lips slightly parted and face relaxed as he glides into his dreams. Harry takes the opportunity to shower, wrapping a rough palm around his cock and working himself to a quick release, images of flushed skin and slick lips embedded in his eyelids. 

After, he towels himself off and returns to the bedroom. Louis is still sleeping peacefully and Harry casts him a soft look as he picks up their discarded clothes to fold them properly. His phone falls out when he lifts his jacket and he grabs it, frowning when he sees two notifications lighting up on the screen. His eyes widen when he realizes it’s not just two notifications, but two missed _calls._ The caller reads ‘Vuk.’ 

Shit.

The clothes get abandoned again as Harry creeps out of the room, not wanting to answer the phone inside and risk waking Louis up. He stops in the hallway, slumping against the wall as he presses the button to call back. The line connects almost instantly. 

“I was surprised when you didn’t pick up,” Aleksander comments, voice sounding raspier and softer over the phone. “That’s never happened before.” 

“Apologies,” Harry says, clipped. “I was…” _Tongue deep in my boyfriend’s ass -_ “Distracted.” 

“Koschei? Distracted?” Aleksander says, amused. “Knife throwing at home again?”

“Something like that,” Harry murmurs. He pauses. “Everything okay?”

Aleksander doesn’t call him often. He’s an exceptionally busy man, managing the entire Guild, corresponding with other factions under the High Table, giving lectures at the Akademiya to a new generation of wolves, and what must be a lot more. Sometimes it rattles Harry how much he still doesn’t know about his mentor, but despite his remaining mysteries, Harry still trusts him deeply.

“All is well,” Aleksander confirms. “And you? You missed the Gala.”

Harry grimaces. The Gala has been held every Solstice for decades now, an exclusive underground event meant for socializing and enjoying company on the neutral grounds of the Continental. Harry’s never been a fan of them, just another example of high-profile scenarios that he’d much rather avoid. Still he typically always goes anyway, accompanying Aleksander with his best suit and an embellished filigree mask. The masquerade theme is not only fancy, but imperative to maintaining anonymity. 

Even so, Harry knows the reason Aleksander invites him every time is so he can be seen. Shown off like some sort of collector’s item. A weapon to be brandished and admired. Aleksander was never secretive about it which is the only reason Harry indulges his desire to establish his presence with intimidation. 

“I was busy,” he says. Busy spending the day with Louis at Brighton Beach, tanning and swimming and making out in the sand. 

“Distracted… busy… This is not like you, Koschei,” Alexander says, sounding more curious than annoyed. “What’s been taking up so much of your time?” 

Swallowing, Harry considers his options. It’s been eight months since he and Louis started dating now and he hasn’t mentioned him to Aleksander once. He wouldn’t say their relationship is the kind where they confide in each other about everything and anything, but it’s strange for such an important part of Harry’s life to be completely unknown by his mentor. 

“My boyfriend,” he admits carefully. _His_ boyfriend. It’s a claim that Harry’s always liked, maybe because it’s a reminder that even though he doesn’t have a lot, he does have Louis. 

“Ah,” Aleksander says slowly. “Your lover.” He says it without a hint of surprise. 

Harry frowns, realization dawning on him. “You knew.” 

“Of course, I did, Koschei,” Aleksander says, and then laughs - like he thinks Harry is hilarious. “They do not call me _Argos_ for nothing.” He has a point. 

“And… how do you feel about it?” Harry asks, wondering if Aleksander is truly unbothered or if he’s hiding it. 

“Me? I am not upset, if that’s what plagues you,” Aleksander says. “I am surprised. Curious too. It must be someone extraordinary to catch the eye of Koschei.”

“He caught the eye of Harry, not Koschei,” Harry murmurs, eyes flickering over to Louis’ closed bedroom door. 

“Even more difficult,” Aleksander says, gentle. A pause. “I’m happy for you.” 

“You are?” Harry asks, stunned. 

“I am hurt by your shock,” Aleksander says, but he doesn’t actually sound offended. “Of course, I am. You deserve to be in love.” 

Harry purses his lips. What made someone deserving of being in love? What made others _not_ deserving? Was there even an answer? And he didn’t even know if he was in love with Louis anyway. He doesn’t know what love even is. “Thank you,” he still says. 

“What of your recent marks? I hope these assignments aren’t boring you,” Aleksander jokes. 

“They’re fine,” Harry assures him. Things have been slow lately, more simple cases than non-simple. Harry truly doesn’t mind. One more complicated mark a month is fine for him. The thought has him thinking back to his last ‘complicated’ mark: Ethan Giordano. And those thoughts inevitably return to the words he left Harry with before he died. Hesitating for a moment, he tells Aleksander about it. 

Aleksander listens carefully, seeming to think over it before replying. “I don’t think there is cause to worry,” he says. Though Harry didn’t directly say the instance bothered him, his mentor easily saw straight through him. “What I know of Ethan Giordano tells me that his words do not have much credibility or worth. Even then, you are safe with the Guild, Koschei. No one knows who you are except those who need to.” 

Harry slumps into the wall. As expected, Aleksander voicing it out loud with confidence eases his previous unease. “You’re right,” he says. 

“I always am,” Aleksander says. It’s not a joke this time, just steadfast conviction. “I will leave you be now. Return to your lover. Stay sharp.”

“Stay sharp,” Harry echoes, staring dazedly at the random point on the wall across from him. The line goes dead and he keeps staring. 

Eventually he snaps out of it, returning to the bedroom where Louis is still sleeping peacefully. It feels weird to have spoken to Aleksander just moments ago and then slide into bed with Louis now - like two worlds grazing too close. 

As he lays there, his mind conjures up what it’d be like if Louis met Aleksander. Like sunshine meeting blood. But, really, Harry thinks they’d appreciate one another. Both lovers of reading and old films. Both driven, ambitious, and thoughtful. Even so, they’ll never actually be in the same room together despite them each being such key parts of his life. 

When Harry thinks about it, Aleksander is the closest thing to a family he had for the past seventeen years. He’s been his mentor, his teacher, but he was also Harry’s parental guardian. 

Harry grew up in upstate New York - a regular, ordinary, suburban neighborhood somewhere right off Albany. The first time he visited the big city was when he was eight. It was also the day his parents died.

No - not just died. That word is too vague. It implies something natural. Something inevitable. Maybe even peaceful. Harry’s parents didn’t just die, they were _murdered._

Stabbed and shot. His father and mother respectively. It happened at eight in the morning. They were at a hotel on the outskirts of the city. Just that morning, Harry’s mother had laid a map out on the table, pointing out all the places they were going to visit, and Harry remembers being excited. A knock came at the door along with a call for room service. Harry’s dad went to open it - they were expecting their breakfast. 

The door had opened and his father was greeted with a knife to his heart. Harry’s younger self hadn’t been looking at him then, too busy wondering how many floors were in the Empire State Building. His mother’s scream was what jolted him out of it, scraping against every part of him.

All Harry got was a glimpse of the masked assailant before he raised his gun and pressed the trigger. The shot had been loud, leaving Harry’s young ears ringing. The man ran and Harry watched his parents bleed out for what felt like hours before he realized he should call for help.

Needless to say, it had been too late. 

Harry doesn’t like to dwell on the past, but it doesn’t feel the same as other memories. The recollection of that day is embedded into him, imprinted so deep that he can never erase it. It’s part of him, woven into his tissue and blood, encrypted in his DNA. It is part of him. 

He remembers a lot of other fragments from the time that followed, but none so clearly. The blood staining the carpet, the police arriving, the hotel manager with the too-wide smile trying to distract him as they investigated the crime scene. He was asked questions too and all he can remember was feeling so lost and confused. It hadn’t sunk in then - that his parents were gone. That they were gone and he was still here and he was alone. 

Aleksander had arrived a couple hours later, the only listed emergency contact for both of them. His godfather, he supposes, though he’s never quite felt like one. 

To this day Harry still doesn’t know who his parents were underground. He knows bits and pieces - that Aleksander has known his mother since they were young. That she was perhaps more skilled with knives than anyone else Aleksander has ever seen. That his father had a speciality for poisons. 

He doesn’t know who killed them either. Or who actually wanted them dead, because he knows all too well that they are often not the same. Aleksander said it was revenge, but even he was clueless. Harry has accepted a long time ago that he would never have full answers - in some ways, he thinks it’s for the better.

It feels weird to be thinking about now, lying in bed with Louis sleeping beside him. Something so violent and horrific being remembered somewhere so quiet and safe. He doesn’t even like remembering his parents in that way - prefers to remember the softer memories. The smell of his mother’s perfume. The brightness of her green eyes. The rumble of his father’s laugh. The calluses on his palms.

Harry goes through all of these things now, replacing the hollow spaces with flashes of warm smiles and hazy distant memories. 

In his sleep, Louis shifts closer, as if giving Harry his comfort without knowing. Harry finds his hand and holds it, no longer feeling alone.

{★}

Sometimes marks take longer than expected to eliminate. Julia Anton-Smith was one of them. It was long-range and simple enough. All Harry had to do was wait for Julia’s sister to go home so she was isolated and he could shoot. As much as it’d be easy to just shoot now and be gone before the witness could see him, he’s never shot someone in the presence of their family or friends. 

It’s something he refuses to do, even if it makes his job more difficult. It’s a line he won’t cross, along with assassinating someone with children they’re involved with. Aleksander and Oz know by now that he won’t accept those marks - they pass them on to another wolf who is willing to do so. It makes Harry feel a little less like he’s a monster. 

Like he’s no different from the assassin who killed his parents. 

Eventually Julia’s sister did leave and Harry squeezed the trigger, completing his final assignment for the month. As he headed back to the checkpoint, he wondered if Julia’s sister knew about Julia’s transgressions - if she knew about them and still continued to love and support Julia the same. 

He found it difficult to believe one could forgive or overlook such misdeeds, even if related by blood and bound by love. Traitorously, his mind drifted to Louis. If Louis knew about his crimes… would there ever be a chance he’d stay? 

It seemed impossible. He ignored the irony behind that judgement and brushed the thought out of mind, continuing on his way. 

Now it’s nearing eight as he exits the checkpoint. He’s freshly showered and hungry, ready for dinner and an early night. He’s also _late._

He told Louis he’d be at his apartment at six thirty, but the unexpected complications with his mark and then some technical difficulties when verifying his mark at the checkpoint resulted in him being woefully tardy. But he’s here now, fumbling a bit with the key as he inserts it in the keyhole in a way he never does. 

The apartment is silent when he enters, but the lights are on. He bites his lip, heading for the kitchen and praying that he doesn’t find Louis waiting for him. 

Louis is waiting for him. Sitting alone at the kitchen table with an empty plate, leftover pasta sauce smeared on its surface. He looks up when Harry steps in, face blank. “You showed up,” Louis says, flat. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, chest tightening when Louis continues looking at him with an impassive face. “I had a meeting with the producer. It went long.” 

“It’s always something,” Louis says, and then sighs. 

Harry grimaces, feeling awful. “I’m sorry, baby. But it’s _work.”_

“No, I get it, really,” Louis says, shaking his head. He stands up, walking to the fridge. “I put your food away because I didn’t know when you’d be back.”

“Lou,” Harry says, gentle. He can hear the frustration in Louis’ voice and it cuts like a knife. 

“Sit down, please,” Louis says, not looking at him as he takes out his plate of pasta and then moves towards the microwave. “You must be hungry.” 

He sits down, trying to figure out if Louis’ tone implies sarcasm or not. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. 

For a minute, Louis doesn’t say anything. He’s staring at the microwave, back turned to Harry, silent as can be. When the microwave dings, he snaps out of it. “I’m not mad,” he says.

Harry can’t even tell. “Are you sure?” he asks, regretting it immediately. 

“I’m not mad,” Louis repeats, forcefully. He turns around, meeting Harry’s eyes as he approaches. “It’s just - do you think you could maybe tell me? When you’re going to be late?” he asks as he places Harry’s plate in front of him. “So I don’t sit here for an hour and a half wondering if I should wait or just eat?”

He grimaces. “I -”

“Maybe I’m just overly paranoid,” Louis says, biting his lip. “But it’s really not fun having no idea where you are, if you’re safe, or if something happened. Even though you’re always just working late, I can’t help being worried. And it’s not fun, Harry. So, could you please tell me?” 

“I… I don’t know if that’s possible,” Harry says, feeling guilt fester in his stomach. He means it too - it’s not exactly easy to pull out his phone and text someone when he’s in the middle of an assassination. It’d be irresponsible and potentially even dangerous to get distracted for even a second. 

But Louis doesn’t know that - he just looks at Harry and frowns. “Why not?”

“I don’t always have access to my phone in the moment,” Harry lies, feeling tense and frazzled. 

Louis sighs. “I just… don’t even know what to say anymore.” 

“What do you mean?” Harry asks, frowning.

“Do you even want to be here right now, Harry?” Louis asks abruptly. He looks upset, lips curled into a frown and arms wrapped around his middle. 

_“Yes,”_ Harry says, stunned at the question. Did Louis honestly think he didn’t? “Of course, I do.”

“Really? Because it doesn’t always feel like it,” Louis mumbles. “You don’t have to come over all the time if you don’t want to, you know. Or, like, feel obligated to hang out with me when you don’t want to. I don’t want you to feel suffocated or think I’m too clingy.”

Harry is standing up and moving towards Louis to cup his face before he finishes speaking, upset at the vulnerability seeping in through his tone. “I’m here all the time because I want to be.”

“Are you sure?” Louis asks.

“Yes,” he says firmly. 

“It just… it just feels like you’ve got other stuff on your mind sometimes when we’re talking,” Louis says, frustrated. “Like you’re never fully here. And you never really answer my questions either. It just feels like I’m always talking and you’re listening but you’d rather not be.” 

“I love listening to you,” Harry says, feeling more and more guilty. Louis has clearly been thinking things like this for a while and he didn’t notice. Even worse, he _did_ notice some of the signs but he ignored them because it was easier. “Louis, I’m so sorry.” 

“Stop apologizing,” Louis scolds, lips twisting into a grimace. “I’m not saying this to make you feel bad. I just want to be open with you. I want you to be open with _me.”_

Harry closes his eyes briefly, feeling the words sink into him. As much as he may want to, he can never be open with Louis fully. At the same time, Harry has been more open with Louis than he has with anyone else.

“And that’s another thing,” Louis says, lifting his head to look at Harry properly. “I understand that you’re a very private person and that you don’t like to talk about yourself as much, but it honestly sucks when I ask you something and you just shut me down every time. Sometimes it just feels like you don’t want me to get close.” 

It makes him stiffen. In some ways, Louis is right. Harry’s natural instinct is to safeguard himself, remaining inconspicuous and discreet at all times. He has his hackles raised constantly, and it’s always kept him safe, but he never properly considered how that must have felt to Louis. But he can’t explain that without revealing too much. So, he tries to deflect. “That’s... unreasonable,” he begins, realizing too late that it’s a mistake when Louis rears back from him. 

In their nine, almost ten, months together, he and Louis have not fought once. Louis in general is such a kind and naturally open-minded person - he’s never one to jump to judgement before considering all sides. So it feels wrong to see him become angry now, brows furrowed and lips pulled into a straight line. 

“How is it unreasonable when you shut me down every single time? How can I interpret that in any other way except for you just not wanting to tell me? Please, _enlighten_ me,” he says, voice rising in volume. 

He flounders for a response, not knowing what to do. “I’m not used to sharing things about myself,” is what he eventually says, deciding that being as honest as possible is the best route. 

“I get that, Harry,” Louis says, shaking his head. “But you don’t even _try.”_

Harry opens his mouth, and then shuts it. 

“We’ve been dating for almost a year and I know nothing about you,” Louis continues, dragging his hands through his hair. “I don’t know your favorite color. I don’t know if you played any sports or instruments in school. I don’t know what you do on a daily basis. Do you know how ridiculous that is?”

“None of those things are important,” Harry says, shaking his head. “They’re surface-level.” 

“But it’s not just that,” Louis counters. “I don’t know any of your friends or your family. I don’t know what causes are important to you or what mark you want to leave on the world. I don’t know what your favorite place to be is. I don’t even know who you are when you’re not with me.” 

_And it’s for a reason._ He stays silent.

“Do you even consider this relationship serious? Are you genuinely committed or is this all fun for you?” Louis asks, sounding more and more upset. “Was this just for the sex?”

Harry blanches, taken aback. “No,” he says, stunned and then horrified. “Louis, of course not.”

“How am I supposed to know?” Louis asks, blinking rapidly. Harry sees tears in his eyes and it makes his heart hurt. “How am I supposed to know what you’re thinking if you don’t tell me? I’m not a mind reader, Harry, and you don’t communicate with me. I could be better at it too, I know I should. But you can’t even have a conversation with me. I don’t _know_ you.” 

“You do know me,” he says, but the lie tastes sour on his tongue. 

“I don’t,” Louis repeats, sounding distraught. “And it’s a shame because I’d really like to.” 

“Lou,” Harry says, helpless. “Whatever you want -”

“I just want to know you, Harry,” he interrupts, a bit more frustrated this time. “That’s all I want. Why won’t you let me?”

 _Because I can’t._ Harry closes his eyes. “Just because I suck at talking about myself doesn’t mean our relationship is any less important to me.” And it is. It’s so important to him. 

Louis lets out a sad laugh. “That’s not the issue and you know it, Harry. The issue is that you don’t trust me.” He pauses, taking a shaky breath. “I’m falling in love with you. Did you know that? I’m falling in love with you and you can’t even prove to me that you care about this relationship.”

For a second, Harry can’t breathe. _I’m falling in love with you. I’m falling in love with you. In love. With you._

“I’m twenty-six years old,” Louis says, looking small and tired. “I want to settle down one day in a nice house and have kids too. I want a committed, _devoted_ relationship with someone who wants that too - someone who will communicate with me and support me. And if you don’t want that - or if you can’t give me that - then maybe we’re on different paths.”

Harry nearly chokes when the words register, heart pounding in his chest. He’s still reeling from Louis saying he’s _falling in love with him,_ but the thought of what Louis is implying sparks his panic. “Louis, wait -”

But Louis shakes his head. “No, I just - can you go? Please?” It comes out soft and wobbly. Louis takes a step back, averting his watery gaze. “I can’t do this right now.” 

And Harry just stares at him, feeling like the worst person in the world. Louis is crying - he’s crying because of _him._ “I’ll go,” he says, because he doesn’t want to make Louis more upset. Because he doesn’t know how to reassure Louis when he’s not even sure how to reassure himself. Because he’s stuck between two worlds but in the end, he can only choose one. 

Louis just nods, backing up and turning around. “Eat the pasta first,” he says right before he leaves the room. “I made it for you.” 

It’s the last remark that has Harry sitting back down automatically, insides heavy with guilt and turmoil but hunger still panging beneath. He eats slowly, chewing and swallowing mechanically. His mouth feels dry, a lump in his throat and a tightness in his chest that pangs with every bite. 

His brain replays the conversation over and over, worsening his guilt. He can’t stop thinking that this may be the end. That Louis is going to call him tomorrow and break up with him and then he’ll lose Louis forever. 

Some small part of him brings up the idea that maybe this is for the best. Maybe fate intervened for Harry’s sake, knowing he was getting too attached and it could only end badly. Maybe this is all for the better. 

But he knows it’s not true. He can feel a physical ache in his heart, a loss so prominent and painful. He’s not just getting attached, he _is_ attached. He treasures his time with Louis more than anything - relying on their time together for comfort and reprieve and relief. The thought that he may never return to Louis’ apartment to hang out and then fall into bed and sleep tangled together makes him feel nauseous. It’s not even what hurts him the most though. 

What hurts Harry the most is that Louis doesn’t know how much he means to him. He thinks Harry doesn’t care about them - about _him._ He doesn’t understand that he’s like the sun, filling Harry with warmth with every glance, smile, or laugh. He doesn’t understand because Harry never told him, not explicitly anyway. 

It’s times like these where Harry wishes he could go to someone else for advice - wishes that he _has_ someone to go to. Aleksander is the last person he’d want to bother for something like this. And Oz would probably be as clueless as him. They’re the only ones he has immediate contact information for - Harry has no one else. Except, he also has Louis… _had._ He squeezes his eyes shut. 

To his surprise, Nibbles appears by his foot, letting out almost a questioning meow. Harry stares down at her, taken aback. He nearly jumps when she butts her head into his leg. 

Unsure what he’s doing, he reaches down and scoops the kitten up. Nibbles thankfully doesn’t claw his eyes out, curiosity gleaming in her wide eyes. She nuzzles into the arm Harry curls around her and he wonders briefly why it took Louis being mad at him for her to warm up to him. “What do I do?” he finds himself asking, absent-mindedly petting the back of her head. 

Nibbles meows, as if saying she has no idea. 

Harry bites his lip. In the end, there’s really only one answer. He doesn’t want them to break up. He doesn’t want to lose Louis’ presence in his life. He doesn’t want to be alone again. 

“I need to fix things,” he murmurs to Nibbles.

She meows as if to agree. Or maybe to say it took him long enough. 

He sets her down after watching her scamper away before taking a deep breath and steeling himself. There’s always a chance that Louis kicks him to the curb regardless of anything he tries, but he’s still going to give it his best shot. 

It takes two rounds of tentative knocks to Louis’ bedroom door before it finally swings open, revealing Louis, newly changed into his pajamas. His eyes are still red, narrowing as they take him in. “What’re you still doing here?” he asks, colder than he’s ever heard him. 

Now that he’s here, Harry suddenly loses the capability to speak. He blinks three times in succession, eyes darting from Louis’ guarded expression to his sleeve-covered hands. “My favorite color is blue,” he begins, softly. “Like your eyes.”

Louis looks stunned, brows furrowing. “What are you doing?” he asks, sounding wary. 

Harry takes a deep breath. “My middle name is Edward. I don’t play any instruments but I tried to learn piano when I was thirteen. I’ve trained in multiple forms of martial arts since I was eleven. I don’t know what mark I want to leave on this world - I just want to be happy.” He pauses. “My favorite place is wherever you are.” 

At that, Louis freezes. “You can’t just - you can’t just say things like that,” he says, shaking his head. “I don’t want your false reassurances.” 

“It’s not false,” Harry says, taking a step forward. “Louis, I want to be with you.” 

As expected, Louis doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t turn Harry away either so Harry counts it as a win. 

“I want to be with you,” he repeats, firmer this time. “I’m sorry I didn’t do a good job at showing you that.” 

“And what’s going to change?” Louis asks. His face is still unreadable, but there’s some cracks in the armor now, wavers shining through. 

Harry bites his lip. “I’ll communicate better,” he promises. “I’ll tell you things about me, even if it’s hard.” He swallows. “I’ll make sure you know that there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than with you.” 

Louis seems to waver at that, chin dipping to his chest. 

“I’ll do better,” Harry murmurs, leaning forward on his toes. “I _want_ to do better for you.” 

For a minute, Louis just stares at him, trying to see if he truly means it. Harry meets his eye, knowing Louis will only find conviction and honesty in his gaze. 

“Please,” he says. He can’t remember a time where he begged or pleaded for anything, but he doesn’t even hesitate now. “Please, baby. Let me stay.” 

A pause. Louis’ face is still impassive even as he moves forward and then slumps into Harry’s chest. His arms come up automatically, locking around him. “You can stay,” Louis mumbles into his shirt. 

Overcome with relief and emotion, Harry just buries his face in Louis’ sweet-smelling hair and breathes in and out, squeezing him tight. _I’m falling in love with you too._

“You already know that my parents are dead,” he murmurs after a minute, figuring some more truths can’t hurt. “I grew up with my godfather. He’s the only real family I have. I don’t have many friends either. Just one, maybe two.” Oz and Neera. “But I have you,” he says after a pause.

In response, Louis hugs him tighter. “You have me,” he agrees. 

Harry pulls back, fingers going to the ring he wears on his pinkie. It’s a slim braided design, solid silver and worn with age. “This belonged to my mother,” he says slowly, eyes shutting briefly as flashes of a different set of hands fill his mind, that same ring glinting in the light. He opens them, sliding it off. “My dad gave this to her when they were still dating. Said it was a promise ring,” he explains, voice raspy. “A promise that he was committed… a placeholder for something more permanent one day.”

“It’s beautiful,” Louis whispers, pressing a hand to his arm in comfort. 

He nods, carefully taking Louis’ hand and keeping his gaze fixed on it. “You mean more to me,” he begins, pushing it onto his slim pointer finger. “You mean more to me than you can ever know.” 

Louis’ eyes are wet when he gains the courage to lift his head, staring down at the ring and blinking back his tears. “Thank you for trusting me with it,” he says. 

Harry knows this would typically be the appropriate time for him to say that he loves him. He’s not familiar with the practices of the general public but he knows that spending nine, almost ten months together without exchanging those three words is uncommon. But he can’t bring himself to say them. 

He can’t… yet.

So he cradles Louis’ face like he’s holding the sun in his hands and then kisses him until the weight in his chest disappears completely.

“Didn’t know you’d end up being a romantic,” Louis murmurs when they finally break up. 

“Nibbles was my winglady,” Harry reveals, smiling when Louis laughs in surprise and delight. 

Just as expected, him smiling makes Louis immediately grin, tracing the curve of his lips with a gentle finger. “Come cuddle?” he asks, lifting his eyes to Harry’s. 

“Always,” Harry murmurs, letting Louis grab his hand and pull him towards the bed. His heart feels light and warm, contentment settling in his chest now that he knows Louis wants him to stay. 

They climb into bed and minutes later Clifford clambers on to join them in a rare occurrence. Neither of them mind either. Louis even suggests they grab Nibbles and make it a party but Nibbles is still flouncing about around the apartment, always the most energetic at the dead of night. 

As always, Louis falls asleep first, head pillowed on Harry’s chest, ear pressed to his heart. Harry takes comfort in the steady rise and fall of his back with every breath, letting his mind wander. 

He made a lot of promises today - promises about commitment and the future and _honesty._ They’re all promises he intends to keep. But he can’t keep them if things continue as they are. 

Which means something has to change. 

That something is what he continues to think about until sleep blankets him in its grasp. His dreams are filled with hazy visions of what could be. 

{★}

“Do you ever think about what you’d be doing if you never joined the Guild?” Harry asks, adjusting his aim right before letting the knife fly. It punctures the center-most ring of the target perfectly. 

Oz shoots him a confused look. “What?”

“Is there any other career you’d see yourself doing?” Harry elaborates, picking up another knife.

“I’ve always wanted to be a teacher.”

“Really?”

“No,” Oz says, amused. “What’s this about anyway?”

Harry grimaces. “Dunno. Just thinking.” He wonders what his answer would be. It’s never been something he thought about because there was never any reason to. And really, he has no fucking idea what he’d want to do. Training, hunting, and killing is all he’s ever known. 

It’s ridiculous that he’s even thinking about it so much. Being an assassin may be the most dangerous job on the planet, but turns out it's really expensive to get someone killed. Harry has more than enough money in his private account to last him a lifetime. Most of the money he makes these days goes straight to different charities under anonymous donations. 

“Do you… do you think you’re always going to be here?” he asks. “At the Guild, I mean.”

“God, I hope not,” Oz lets out a laugh. “But I’ve got some time on me. Why?”

“No reason… just… thinking,” Harry says.

Oz stares at him, unimpressed. He’s using his prosthetic leg today, sharpening some of the practice knives at the desk. He already gave Harry his next batch of marks, file sitting on the bench nearby. It’s all relatively run-of-the-mill, no individual sticking out more so than others. “Thinking about what?” Oz prompts.

Harry throws another blade, hitting the space directly next to his last score. “Retirement,” he says, blunt. Not a Dmitri Baros kind of retirement, but an actual ending. A goodbye. 

He’s not facing Oz directly so he can’t see his reaction but he can sure as hell hear his reply. 

“You want to leave the Guild?” he exclaims, loud enough that it echoes off the metal walls.

Hesitating for a moment, Harry decides he might as well be honest. “Yeah,” he says.

“Why?” Oz asks, and he sounds genuinely mind-boggled. 

He thinks of Louis. Of a future without blood or secrets or lies. “I don’t really want to spend the rest of my life doing this,” he says carefully. It’s not a lie. 

As ridiculous as it may seem to even consider, it does not bring Harry joy to end people’s lives. Sure, he feels satisfaction sometimes that certain horrible individuals will no longer be doing terrible things, but that’s different. Every assassin understands the weight that comes with every mark, the knowledge that you’ve committed an act that cannot be undone. It’s a weight that sticks with you for good, getting bigger with every mark. 

And sure, it’s easier now than it may have been in the beginning. He’s gotten _used_ to it. But the weight - the _guilt_ \- never truly goes away. At least it hasn’t for Harry. He thinks that’s a price he must pay for what he’s done, the consequence for his actions that cannot be avoided. 

But he doesn’t necessarily want to spend the rest of his life rolling the dice and then paying the price. He doesn’t enjoy risking his life and fighting week after week, especially when it brings him no benefit in the end. Money is no longer vital to him, and glory has never been his aim. He’s part of the Guild because it’s all he’s ever known.

Except, it doesn’t mean it will always be all he’s ever known. 

“You’re actually considering this?” Oz says after a pause, completely flabbergasted. 

“Yeah,” Harry says. 

“What about Argos?” Oz asks, sounding a mixture of skeptical and something else.

“I haven’t told him,” Harry says, shrugging. “Do you think he’d let me?” 

“Honestly, I have no clue,” Oz says, sucking in a breath. “You’re his golden boy. The only one he lets get close. To be honest, I always thought you’d be the one he’d pass the reins off to one day.” 

Harry nods. He was thinking of that too. He knows the relationship he has with Aleksander is unique - he’s the only assassin that knows his actual name, for one. He entered this career with his extra blessing and he’s reaped the benefits of it. But even thinking about one day taking Aleksander’s place, of running the Guild and overseeing recruitment and communicating with the High Table along with everything else Aleksander does, makes him feel nothing but tired. “I don’t want that,” he says. 

Oz raises an eyebrow, looking unconvinced. “Whatever you say,” he shrugs, turning back to his knives. “Where did this even come from anyway?” 

“I just want to live in the sun,” Harry says, eyes following to his now bare pinkie. The loss of weight from the silver band was an adjustment but just thinking about Louis at work or running errands with Harry’s ring on his finger makes him feel an inexplicable satisfaction. “Just tired of it all. I’m thinking of settling down.” 

“Settling down? You?” Oz says, even more confused. He raises his hands, eyes wide. “Did I step into an alternate universe?” 

“Ha ha,” Harry says, flat. “I’m serious. It’s not fun being alone.”

“Yeah, it’s not,” Oz agrees, a sadness in his voice. “But what do _you_ mean? Like… have a family and shit?” 

Harry purses his lips. “Yeah,” he reveals, shrugging again. “It’d be nice.” 

“Just when I think I know you,” Oz says, bewildered. “But good for you, man.” He tilts his head. “Now that I think about it, you have been happier lately. Lighter. You used to be as miserable as me.” He chuckles. 

“I am happier,” Harry confesses, turning back to his knives. It’s been a couple weeks since he and Louis fought and then made-up. A couple weeks since he promised Louis that he was going to stay. Things have been really good ever since, but Harry wants to make them even better. 

They both continue their tasks in silence. 

{★}

As sweet as Louis always is, sometimes he can be a little minx. 

Harry is thinking this as he stands at the threshold of the living room, frozen in place. Louis is sprawled out on the couch, flat on his tummy as he flips through a magazine. He’s wearing his glasses, tipped slightly askew on his nose, and his hair is all soft and fluffy under the light streaming from the window. He’s wearing one of Harry’s shirts. 

He’s wearing _only_ one of Harry’s shirts, fabric skimming the middle of his thighs and leaving his legs bare, inches of smooth tan skin on display. 

His gaze is fixed on the magazine, but Harry knows that Louis knows he’s there. Knows he’s staring. And Harry knows Louis is probably enjoying this way too much. 

Weighing his options, Harry decides he’s not going to play into Louis’ little game just yet. He’ll just have to maintain some self-control. Just as he moves to step forward, Louis shifts on the couch, the hem of his shirt riding up. 

The hem of his shirt is riding up, revealing a sliver of lavender lace. Harry is pretty sure his heart skips a beat, insides suddenly a lot warmer than before. He doesn’t even realize he’s moving until his legs bump into the edge of the couch, eyes roaming down the length of Louis’ body. 

“Hey, darling,” Louis says, flipping to the next page. 

Harry takes a deep, calming breath. Then he sinks to the floor, reaching a hand out and hesitating only slightly before curling it around the back of Louis’ thigh. His skin is warm and soft, heat bleeding into his palm. 

“Baby,” he says, his other hand snaking up to flatten over his page. “What’re you wearing?” 

Louis lets out an affronted sound, yanking the magazine out from his grip. “Clothes,” he answers belatedly. “What does it look like?” 

Swallowing, Harry leans in close, breath fanning out against Louis’ ear. “It looks like someone is being needy again,” he murmurs, fingers pressing into Louis’ thigh to emphasize. 

For his part, Louis doesn’t react visibly. He just hums, almost dismissive. “It’s ninety degrees outside,” he says, nonchalant. “Is it really a crime to be hot?” 

“If I say yes, will you let me punish you?” Harry asks, keeping his voice level. 

This time, Louis twitches the slightest bit. “When did you get so vulgar?” he murmurs, cheeks turning red. 

“Always been this way,” he whispers. “Just saying it out loud now.” He means it too - he’s been trying to be more vocal and involved lately, not just sexually but in general. Louis wants to know what he's thinking so he’s going to tell him. “Stop trying to stall,” he says then, hand creeping up Louis’ skin. 

“Dunno what you’re talking about,” Louis says, biting his lip. 

The tips of Harry’s fingers touch the lace and Louis flinches. “And what’s this?” Harry asks, turning his face to nose his way down Louis’ throat. “What’s this, baby?” 

Louis hums. “Why don’t you look and see.” 

Harry obliges. He wastes no time in rucking the bottom of the shirt up, exposing Louis’ lace covered ass. “Louis,” he breathes, teeth digging into his lip when Louis shakes his hips. 

“Do you like it?” Louis asks. It comes out cool and coy, but Harry can hear the genuine question in his words. 

In response, Harry drops a kiss to the back of his head. “You’re exquisite,” he says, tugging his shirt up further and then helping Louis take it off all together. Louis wraps his arms around his neck, pulling him into a kiss. It’s slow and teasing, lips parting and tongues sliding together. “What do you want, baby?” he mumbles into his mouth.

“Your dick,” Louis mumbles back, always eloquent. 

He bites his bottom lip in rebuke anyway, hoisting him up in his arms and then heading for the bedroom. He’s rushing so fast that he nearly trips over himself, sending Louis into giggles when Harry apologizes profusely.

The door slams shut when Harry kicks it closed with his foot, desperation growing with every step. It doesn’t help that Louis’ lips have attached to his neck, compromising his ability to concentrate. He bites down particularly hard when Harry throws him on the bed less gently than he intended, letting out a sound of indignance. 

“Sorry. Sorry, angel,” Harry says, feeling a mixture of dazed and overwhelmed. He can’t help that he’s not as smooth as he usually is - Louis looks fucking gorgeous and he’s struck dumb at it. 

“Fuck me,” Louis pleads, yanking him down and connecting their lips again.

Harry slows the kiss, taking control as he takes Louis’ wrists in his hand and pins them above his head. He knows Louis likes that - the feeling of being restrained. He licks into Louis’ mouth and squeezes his wrists, blood going hot at his resulting whimper. 

“Clothes off,” Louis slurs when Harry switches to mouthing down his throat. 

He continues sucking at his pulse for a moment before complying, yanking his shirt up and over his head and then flinging it off the bed. He shoves his shorts down next, hissing when his hand brushes his rapidly fattening cock, length pressing up against his boxers. He frees that next, eyes darting to Louis who’s spread his legs out, a light flush running down his neck and chest.

His hand curls around his cock, giving it a few firm tugs to relieve the tension. He reaches over to the nightstand, fumbling with the drawer before successfully opening it and retrieving the lube and a condom. 

Both get temporarily discarded as Harry leans down to mouth at Louis’ bellybutton, too tempting to ignore when it’s just right there. He drags his lips down to the hem of his panties, sucking marks into his skin. “Got all pretty for me, didn’t you?” he says, nuzzling into Louis’ stomach. “Prettiest angel I’ve ever seen.” 

Louis whimpers when he presses a kiss over the small wet spot on the front, hips jerking up. “Please,” he whines, squirming.

Harry peppers kisses to the soft skin of Louis’ inner thighs, carefully sliding the fabric down his legs and off. Biting his lip, he hesitates only a moment before he’s smushing the panties into a wad and then bringing it up to Louis’ mouth. “Open,” he commands.

Automatically, Louis parts his lips, eyes wide as Harry stuffs the fabric into his mouth. There’s no disgust or uncertainty in his gaze though, just pure want. 

The sight of Louis laid out and needy is suddenly too much to handle. Harry grabs the lube and slicks up his fingers, leaning down to tongue at Louis’ nipples because he’s just so sensitive - squirming and mewling at the smallest of touches. It always gets him so wet too. 

He _jerks_ when Harry slides the first finger in, slow but deliberate. The second finger is quick to follow, working Louis open carefully. 

It’s at moments like this, where Louis is completely and utterly at his mercy - choking on his panties, writhing on the mattress, close to tears - that he marvels at how lucky he is to be here. To see Louis like this and to be the one making him fall apart. To be the one trusted to put him back together. He’s so _so_ lucky. 

Three fingers is when Louis starts getting impatient, rocking back up into his fingers, fingers grasping at the sheets and pulling them into disarray. 

But Harry only ceases when he’s sure Louis is ready, wiping his fingers on the bed before fumbling for the condom. His heart is pounding in his ribs, adrenaline pumping through his blood and energy thrumming under his skin. His cock is so hard that it’s hard to focus. He finally finds it, making to tear the wrapper -

Except, Louis jolts. “No, don’t,” he gasps, having spit out the panties in his trouble. 

Harry stills, confused and taken aback. At first all that translated was the distress in Louis’ voice, activating his first instincts to protect. “What -”

“No condom,” Louis says, stumbling over his words. “Please.”

The words register and Harry freezes, mouth dropping open. “Lou - are you sure?” 

“M’on birth control,” Louis says, gripping his arms, fingers digging into his skin. “Please, Harry. _Please.”_

“Okay,” he blurts, suddenly desperate to feel Louis around him with no barriers. This - this is something big. A show of trust. Of commitment. It makes his insides warm. “Okay, okay.” 

He lowers himself over Louis’ body, batting the soiled panties away in favor of slotting their lips together. He can feel the wetness on Louis’ cheeks, the tremble in his fingers when he intertwines their fingers. 

When he eases in, Louis clings to him excruciatingly tight. He can’t complain, knowing he’s holding on just as tightly. While the action itself has barely changed, it feels entirely different as he pushes in deeper and deeper, nothing between them but the air. 

It elicits a strange, almost _carnal_ feeling inside him, burning in every slow drag of his hips as he begins to move. He pulls Louis’ arms back above his hand, fingers still interlaced and lips still locked together. The knowledge that he’s the closest to Louis than he’s ever been settles within him. 

Louis had told him he was a carrier when they first started dating, wanting to give a full disclosure and make sure they were both safe. But Harry’s never been so aware of his ability to bear children until now, entranced by the push of his cock inside Louis’ tight little body without any barriers. He’s going to come inside him, fill him up and make him cry. 

The thought has him ramming in a bit harder, emboldened by every dulcet cry of pleasure he pulls from Louis’ throat. Faster, harder, deeper - wants Louis to be able to feel it in his stomach. 

Harry has never felt so simultaneously out of control and laser-focused, chasing relief as he angles deep into Louis’ core until he’s sobbing in bliss but still begging for more with every whine, whimper, and scream.

Like always, Louis’ voice seems to cut out when he tips over the edge, body going taut and then lax as he spurts between them. Harry kisses all over his face, murmuring praises and sweet nothings. 

His own release doesn’t take much longer, last instinct to shove in as deep as he can as he spills out _inside_ him. He shudders through the after-shocks, burying his face in Louis’ neck and breathing in through his mouth. 

Their strained breathing and the thundering of their hearts is the only sound heard in the room for the next minute, both trying to recover.

Eventually, Harry is able to stumble out of bed for a rag and then clean them both up. He holds back on cleaning between his ass cheeks, wanting to watch the cum drip out and down his thighs. Louis smacks him when he reveals that. 

Half an hour later, they’re laying side by side. The fan is on, whirring quietly above them as chilled air cools their burning skin. Harry has Louis’ fingers tangled in his, thumb rubbing circles over the back of his hand. 

“I’m not working on Friday this week,” Louis murmurs abruptly. 

Harry makes a sound of acknowledgement. “Do you want to do something?” he asks, more of a guess than anything. 

“Well… would you ever consider having dinner with me and Zayn?” Louis asks, voice nearly as soft as a whisper, hesitation lining his words. Harry purses his lips. 

It’s not the first time Louis has invited him to excursions involving his friends. He usually declines, feigning an excuse or saying he’s not in the mood. He’s only ever met Zayn once and it was on Louis’ birthday, back in December. He knew Louis was hoping they’d hit it off and become friends but he hadn’t been ready for anything like that back then. Interacting with multiple people at once is not something he’s had to do very often, especially for the intention of friendship. 

But maybe Harry _is_ ready this time. At least to try. 

“Okay,” he says, knowing he’s made the right choice when Louis practically lights up. 

“I’ll tell him,” he says, smile blooming on his lips. 

He’s so gorgeous when he smiles, light seeping from his skin like he’s living sunlight. It’s not the first time Harry has thought that, but it’s not the only thing he’s thinking either. 

Harry is thinking that he wants to see that smile - to be the _reason_ for that smile - for the rest of his life. 

{★}

“I want to retire.” 

Aleksander stills, turning to stare at Harry in surprise. At first glance, Aleksander Antonov is a small and frail man - hair more ivory than ebony, skin lined with tired wrinkles, and posture slumped from age and exhaustion. However, he is the best example of appearances being deceiving - he may be getting old, but in reality, he is timeless. 

Harry probably should have greeted him first before blurting out his confession immediately, but the words just slipped out. He’s been thinking them since he left Louis’ apartment that morning, mouthing and sounding them out on the train and then on the walk to the Waldorf Astoria hotel. The receptionist sent him up once he uttered the codeword and now he’s here, standing at the entrance of Aleksander’s day office, his declaration hanging heavy in the air between them. 

“Koschei,” Aleksander says, moving back away from the window he was staring out of pensively. “What did you say?” 

Taking a deep breath, Harry steps fully into the room, hands shoved into his pockets. “I want to retire,” he repeats. 

“Retire,” Aleksander echoes. “Define ‘retire.’”

Deep breath. “I no longer want to work for the Guild. I no longer want to be _Koschei_ anymore.” Before Aleksander can reply, he continues. “It has nothing to do with you or anything like that. I’m so grateful for the time I spent here and the privileges I’ve received. I just decided that there’s something more important that I need to focus on now.”

“Your lover,” Aleksander supplies, tilting his head. He sounds more curious than angry, the realization sending sparking some premature relief inside Harry. But he’s not out of the woods yet. “I expected this to happen.”

Harry blinks. “You did?”

Aleksander nods, moving towards his desk. He gestures for Harry to sit down with an impatient flick of his hand and Harry obliges uneasily. 

“Love is the main reason people choose to leave early,” Aleksander shrugs as he takes his own seat. “You are not special because you think you’ve found the one, Koschei.” He folds his hands together on the table. “How sure are you about him?”

“More serious than I’ve been about anything,” Harry says. “More certain than I am when I throw a knife, shoot a gun, or deal the final strike.”

“I see,” Aleksander says. He taps the wood absently, exhaling. “I will permit you your retirement.”

It takes a moment for the words to sink in and when they do, Harry gapes. He hadn’t expected it to be so easy. “I promise I will -” His reassurances wilt in seconds when Aleksander raises a single hand.

“I will permit you your retirement,” he repeats, slow. “On one condition.”

Harry falters, grimace twisting his lips. This makes a lot more sense. “What is it?” he asks. 

“The condition is that you carry out one final task for me,” Aleksander says. “One last mark, that is.” 

“What’s the catch?” Harry raises an eyebrow.

“This is a task for which many believe it cannot be done,” Aleksander says. “Impossible, if you will. An impossible task. If you complete it, then I will let you for good.”

 _Impossible._ “If it cannot be done, then why offer it?” Harry asks, uneasy. 

“This is a fair bargain,” Aleksander says. “You are the best assassin I’ve had in a decade. People fear your name and simultaneously aspire to be you. I do not give up my best assets so willingly. Even if they are close to me.” 

Harry takes a deep breath. “Tell me,” he murmurs. 

Aleksander purses his lips, leaning forward just a tad. “Lawrence Argent. Age thirty-nine. Located here in the city. I have a full file for him but it is not with me now.”

Harry doesn’t respond, recognizing the weight in Aleksander’s voice - the hesitance. For a moment, there’s silence. Harry and his mentor regarding each other carefully. 

“You may know him by a different name,” Aleksander says finally, withdrawn and slow. “Wraith.” 

The name echoes in the air and Harry stills, mouth dropping open. “Ex-Guild?” he says, shocked.

Ex-Guild, as in ex- _assassin._ Assassinating an ex-assassin… it sounds ridiculous. It _is_ ridiculous. Aleksander is ridiculous if he thinks a feat like this can be achieved, even by Harry.

“I told you it’d be an impossible task.” Aleksander seems unbothered, picking his cup of tea up and taking a sip. “But, who knows,” he says. “The great Koschei was said to cross the lines of impossible time and time again.” 

“Why?” is ultimately Harry’s next response. What could possibly warrant a mark on someone that was once one of their own. 

“Something beyond forgiveness,” Aleksander says. “He took what he learned here at the Guild and wielded that power for his own agenda, fuelled by greed and disregard of our code. It is personal, Koschei.”

He killed non-marks. _Innocents._ “How many?” Harry asks.

“Even one is an abomination when it does not come from a base of defense or protection,” Aleksander says. “Ten. It was ten last I heard. You know I keep an eye on all my soldiers, even beyond the war.” He pauses for a moment, seeming to stare off into the distance. “I do not do this lightly, Koschei. I’ve known Lawrence since he was fifteen. He was clumsy when he first joined the academy. Scared of heights. Penchant for freezing up. The years erased that fumbling boy and created another soldier - like you and me. But then he went astray.” He shakes his head. 

Harry isn’t sure but he thinks he can hear regret layered in the tenor of his voice. A bit of responsibility too. He leans back in his seat, hands flattening against his slacks over his knees. He dressed up to come here today like he always does. “I accept,” he says. 

Aleksander flicks him a look. “Are you sure?”

He thinks of Louis. Of a life where he didn’t have to keep secrets and risk his life every week. A life where he could finally live instead of survive. He nods. 

Dipping his head in acknowledgement, Aleksander holds his hand out expectantly. Harry grips it, meeting his familiar slate eyes, weary and tired. They shake. 

{★}

_part ii ~ pay the price_

The marker card is solid obsidian. 

Harry keeps it tucked into his pocket for the following weeks, pulling it out and running his hands over the smooth surface and the divots where Argent's name is etched, reminding himself what it’s there for. 

He looks at the file too, over and over, learning who Lawrence Argent is inside and out. There’s not much on him as expected. Aleksander catalogues all the most important information for his mercenaries - nothing more and nothing less. Still, Harry is able to form a decently good picture of Lawrence’s character. He lives alone in an old Victorian in Prospect, playing the role of perfect suburban inhabitant. 

The Prospect area is actually one of the places in Brooklyn that Harry enjoys walking around the most, experiencing the blend of old houses and newer art and atmosphere. It’s upsetting that such a nice location veils such a murderer - then again, not for long. 

That’s another thing Harry’s been looking into - Argent’s murders. They’ve been spread out for the most part, save for a double succession less than six months ago. None of the kills have been in Prospect, and only a couple have been in Brooklyn at all. The methods of elimination varied greatly, meaning they probably haven’t all been connected by the NYPD. Argent is not just a run-of-the-mill serial killer. He’s a trained assassin, able to come off as a dozen unique cases rather than one individual. 

His victims are diverse too - multiple genders, ethnicities, and backgrounds. They don’t seem to have a common link which begs the question of his motive. Of the four established types of serial killers, he seems to fit most closely with Visionary though there’s no way to know for sure. All Harry knows is that the more he reads about each one, the angrier he gets. 

Assassins are not good people - _Harry_ is not a good person. He would never pretend to be. But he follows a code of honor with his executions and acts with some sense of justice, twisted or not. Argent contradicts everything he has learned and everything the Guild upholds. 

While Harry will not be ‘happy’ to kill him, he will not be burdened either. 

Scouting is the next phase of the plan. He visits the Cartographer for detailed diagrams of Argent’s house and frequented places of visitation. He spends quite a bit of time with Neera at Archives going over CCTV footage and other sources of surveillance to carve out a good idea of his daily - even weekly - schedule. Actual in-person reconnaissance is more limited. Harry went today to get a good idea of the area and terrain and he may go again weeks from now, but otherwise he is sticking to his tried and true and remaining as discreet as possible. 

Argent is not his typical victim. He has the same built-in awareness of everyone around him as Harry does. If he gets a look at Harry more than once, it could be potentially damning. His experience makes him the most dangerous person Harry has ever targeted, and he’s completely aware of it as he continues his research. It’s not going to be easy, he knows, but he’s going to do it. He has to. 

Harry exits the F train and heads aboveground onto the streets, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat. It’s autumn now, leaves turning fiery and burned hues and air getting cooler. Summer flitted by before Harry’s eyes. It seems almost unfathomable that it’s now mid-October, time slipping away with every passing hour. 

He only took on two marks for this month, one already taken care of and the other set to be eliminated in the next few days. Argent is a longer-term project so he’s allotting all the time he can get. Oz gave him a side-eye when he handed him his file, much thinner than it normally is, and Harry informed him that he’ll be retired by the end of the year. 

Setting all thoughts of Argent and his impending job out of mind, Harry continues walking towards Louis’ apartment. He’s practically been living there these days, his own apartment left inhabited for over a week now. It’s a testament to how much things have changed. A few days ago marked the year since he met Louis for the very first time. A year, and Louis has completely changed his life… for the better. 

Louis isn’t off for another hour, so Harry puts the baked pizza Louis wants to try in the oven and then decides to take Clifford for a walk since he’s acting restless, butting into his legs and zooming around the apartment. He checks on Nibbles quickly, finding her asleep on the floor where the sunlight is warming a patch of the carpet. 

It’s as he’s walking Clifford down the street when he realizes that this is the first time he’s not felt a deep divide between him and the people around him. Right now, he’s just a regular New Yorker, headphones in his ears playing Air Supply and Clifford scampering ahead of him excitedly. 

Just a normal guy taking his boyfriend’s dog on a walk. He could get used to it, is the gist. _Soon,_ he thinks. 

They return to the apartment after half an hour, and Harry hears the tell-tale sound of the shower meaning that Louis is here. 

He takes the pizza out of the oven in the meantime, getting out plates. Small hands curl into his shirt, a face pressing into his back between his shoulder blades. “Hey, baby,” he says, turning in Louis’ hold and curling an arm around his waist to hug him properly. 

“Hi,” Louis says, nuzzling into his shirt.

“How was work?” Harry asks, resting his chin on the top of his head and smoothing his hand down his spine. “Are you feeling okay?” 

Louis has been feeling under the weather for most of this week, sore and tired. Harry came back the day before to find Louis throwing up in the toilet, brushing off his subsequent concerns and saying he ate something strange for breakfast. He also took the time to remind Harry that he is a fully capable Nurse Practitioner and he knows how to take care of himself. Harry still worries on principle, wanting Louis to be healthy and happy all the time. 

“Mhm,” Louis hums. “‘M Hungry.”

Harry kisses the top of his head, handing him a plate. He’s been feeling a lot more comfortable about displays of affection like that recently, and it feels good. 

They eat at the table, the occasional remark being exchanged but both equally content with the comfortable silence. 

Unfortunately, time passes much too quickly. Since Harry is still parading as a location scout, he’s been pretending that he’s just stopping by so they can eat together on his extended lunch break. In order to keep that lie, he has to take his leave. He’ll probably go to the gym or train at a checkpoint for the reminder of the day before coming back to Louis for the night. 

“Remember to lock the door,” he says, pressing his lips to Louis’ chastely.

“I always do,” Louis sighs, but it’s more fond than annoyed. “I’m going to bake some pie for later. Apple or peach?”

“You choose,” Harry murmurs, pressing one last kiss to Louis’ cheek before forcing himself to leave. Louis follows him to the door, murmuring final goodbyes as Harry steps out into the hallway. 

When the door shuts, Harry waits for another moment, staring at the wood. It always feels so hard to leave Louis, even if it’s just for a few hours. This, he reminds himself, is what he’s fighting for. 

And he’s willing to accomplish the impossible to keep it.

{★}

Their one-year anniversary arrives before Louis knows it. 

Louis gets off from work early that morning, meeting Harry back at his apartment and then immediately falling into bed. They sleep in till almost noon and then spend the rest of the day wrapped in each other, fucking slow and sweet over and over until Louis can barely move without feeling the phantom ache between his legs. 

However, he forces himself up when Harry reveals he got them a reservation at Le Bernardin for dinner. They both dress up and enjoy a fancy five-course meal at one of the most esteemed restaurants in Midtown Manhattan, enjoying the widely praised seafood and rich selections of wine. Afterwards, they go see a show on Broadway because Louis bought tickets a month ago. Seeing shows is something he hasn’t been able to do as much as he used to despite his massive love of the theatre and although Harry’s never been a fan of films and tv shows, he’s much more entertained by live performances. Louis is pleased when Harry tells him he’s enjoying it during intermission. 

It’s late by the time they stumble back to Louis’ apartment, hands roaming under suit jackets and mouths sliding languidly. Harry rocks into Louis a final time, pressing kisses all over his face and neck. Louis clings to him, biting his lip so hard that it bleeds, _I love you_ waiting on the tip of his tongue.

Suddenly ‘fucking’ seems inadequate in describing the feeling Louis gets when Harry moves inside him. He never used to be a fan of the phrase ‘making love,’ but it’s the only way to describe how they hold each other close, hearts beating in tune. 

The love Louis has felt all day seems to grow stronger and stronger, burning deep in his chest and thrumming through his veins. Love for the man who came into his life so unexpectedly and proved that he was here to stay. It wasn’t that simple, of course, starting off a small flicker that was nurtured into a flame.

In a way, Louis is pleased that it didn’t start off so fixed. After years of failed and messy relationships, the slow smolder of a relationship with Harry has felt like a relief - a comfort, maybe. And though it led to frustration and second doubts after a point, Louis knows now that Harry wants to be here as much as he does. 

He can feel it in the way Harry looks at him, so tender and awed. In the way he touches him, gentle and reverent, like he’s precious. Can feel it in the ever-present weight of the ring on his pointer finger, the promise that put it there. Harry kisses it when he pulls out, wrapping Louis up in his arms and burying his face in his neck. 

They stay like that for a while until the stickiness becomes unbearable. Harry goes off for a rag and Louis’ eyes flutter shut, inhaling and exhaling as his heart calms down. They open again a few minutes later, confused as to why Harry hasn’t returned. He sits up slowly, lips parting to call out right as Harry stumbles back into the room, rag in hand and a frown on his face. 

“Sorry, Lou,” he says, when he sees that Louis moved. “Had to answer the phone.” 

“What was it?” Louis asks, letting Harry wipe him down quickly before repeating. 

Harry shakes his head. “Just my godfather… nothing important.” He sees Louis’ frown and softens. “I’m serious. It’s nothing.” 

“Okay,” Louis says. His insides twist, because he’s not quite convinced. There’s a deep furrow between Harry’s brows and his lips are flattened into a line. He looks _troubled,_ and it refutes his assurance but it also makes Louis’ heart ache. 

He’s been looking a lot more tired lately in general. Louis has been too busy and distracted to initiate a serious conversation about it, but he figures it has something to do with work. It always does, really. But right now, looking at Harry’s eyes - his beautiful eyes that carry so much misery, even from the first day they met - it feels bigger. 

“Are you okay?” he whispers, carefully sliding his hand up to cradle the side of Harry’s face. He’s always so good at masking his feelings but there are moments where the facade crumbles a bit and Louis can see the exhausted boy underneath, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Louis wants nothing more than to help take some of that weight away. 

Harry leans into the touch with his eyes still shut, turning his head to press his lips to Louis’ palm. “I’m fine, baby,” he murmurs after a moment. 

Louis lets Harry take his hand and intertwine their fingers, bringing their linked hands to his chest right over his heart. “Okay,” he whispers, wishing he could believe him. 

Later on, Harry is fast asleep and Louis is still awake, blinking unseeingly up at the ceiling. His right hand is still safely tucked with Harry’s but his left creeps down to his stomach, wondering when he’ll get the courage to just go out and say it. 

{★}

_You will pay the price._

Harry reads the words over and over, teeth digging into his bottom lip. He raises his gaze to Aleksander who’s already regarding him carefully. “Nothing on feed?” 

Aleksander shakes his head. “It was hacked.” 

“So what do we know?” Harry asks, uneasy. 

“It arrived in an unmarked envelope, addressed to you, at my private home address yesterday morning. I was out so I didn’t see it till the evening. Not many people have access to that information. My security system was disabled so there is no footage, but this seems to be all they left - nothing was taken,” Aleksander explains. 

He exhales, staring down at the note again. When he received Aleksander’s call the day before, the last thing he expected him to reveal was this. Yet here he is. _You will pay the price._ Vague and laden with a threat. And he has absolutely no idea who sent it and no way of finding out. 

“One more thing,” Aleksander says, lifting a finger. Harry tenses. “The letter reeked of perfume. I know nothing about matters like that so I consulted Anya. She said it smells like jasmine and something else.” He opens his drawer, pulling out a clear plastic bag in which the envelope resides, _For Koschei_ etched in big bold letters on the outside. 

Harry takes it gingerly, feeling nauseous as he opens the bag and carefully grips the paper between two of his fingers. Already he can smell it, a rich and strong scent wafting up into his nose. Floral, but spicy - unlike anything he’s ever smelled before. 

Except… he feels like he _has_ smelled it before. The most poignant sense of deja-vu overtakes him, leaving him rattled. It’s like the wisps of recognition are pulling at threads, but it’s unravelling before he can figure it out. 

“What do we do?” he asks, setting it down again.

Aleksander purses his lips, tapping the table. “I will look into this, of course. The thing about all things is that at least someone knows something. I can call in some favors if I need to too.”

“I don’t want you to go to a lot of trouble,” Harry protests. “Whoever this is… they have something against me _._ Not you.”

“If they didn’t want me involved, they shouldn’t have sent it to my fucking house,” Aleksander says, accent thickening on the obscenity. He is not one to curse often, and it takes Harry by surprise. “I do not like threats like this. It is disgraceful - _cowardly.”_

Harry nods, gaze dropping to those five words again. “I’m still going ahead with the task,” he says, expecting Aleksander to say something.

Sure enough, he sighs. “Koschei, we are dealing with an uncertainty right now. It may be best to cease any and all efforts for the time being. Argent is not going anywhere and your safety must be confirmed first.”

“I’m not afraid of a coward,” Harry counters. “Besides, I have a plan in progress. I don’t look forward to having to alter all of it all thanks to a short note.”

“But it’s not just you that you have to think about,” Aleksander says patiently.

“What?” Harry asks. “You think that whoever this is might target you too? Or the Guild?” 

“Not me,” Aleksander corrects. “Your lover.”

The words sink in, and Harry jerks. He _jerks._ “They couldn’t - there’s no way they could know about him,” he says, heart pounding. “Right?”

“This person found out my home address,” Aleksander says firmly. “I would not underestimate him.”

“But - he’s innocent,” Harry says, shaking his head. “This is about _me.”_

“It is better to be safe,” Aleksander says, not bothering with the second half of the phrase. “Not everyone follows the same code of honor we do, Koschei.” 

Harry feels nauseous. Louis couldn’t actually be targeted… could he? _You will pay the price._

What if the price was - 

He stands up, pacing across the room. “Find them,” he tells Aleksander. Find them, make sure they can’t even think about Louis or going after him. It’s nothing, he tells himself. Just some sick twisted joke maybe. A bitter and pitiful attempt to spook him. More bite than bark. 

However, deep inside, Harry knows better. He thinks of another warning he received nearly five months ago. 

_They’re coming for you._

_You will pay the price._

It could be considered impulsive to connect the two without further evidence but Harry has an inexplicable gut feeling that they are interrelated. Knows it deep within him. What he doesn’t know is who - who and _why._ Why him, why now, why at all?

Why? 

“I do not want you to worry,” Aleksander says, his version of a consolation. “We will figure this out.” 

“How could someone get a hold of your private address?” Harry asks. He doesn’t even know it - not his current one at least. “Hypothetically.”

“It is High Table record,” Aleksander says. “That is the only way one could know it without me knowing. I am sure of that. How they managed to do it… that I am not sure of.” 

Harry nods, lifting his hands to rub his eyes.

“Here is what I suggest,” Aleksander says, slate eyes hard and steady. “You remain alert and present. I will assign a shadow for you.” He holds a hand up when Harry tries to protest. “This is not an insult, Koschei. I know you can handle yourself. This is for _my_ peace of mind.”

He relents begrudgingly. 

“I will look into this,” Aleksander continues. “And you… stay away from your lover. I will assign a shadow for him too if it will ease your worry.”

“Please do,” Harry croaks, the idea of something happening to Louis enough to make him want to throw up. The former takes a bit longer to come to terms with. There is a chance that the note-sender is truly only focused on Harry and doesn’t even know about his boyfriend, but that doesn’t mean Harry won’t try to keep his existence a secret as much as possible anyway. And there’s also the fact that if he is truly being targeted, it is safer for Louis to be as far away as possible from him and any potential damage. 

“We will figure this out,” Aleksander repeats, sensing his anxiety. 

Harry echoes the sentiment, trying to believe it. 

{★}

Later that day, he types out a text to Louis and ignores the guilt pooling in his stomach. 

_sleeping at mine tonight._

It’s for the better. 

{★}

Zayn pulls up to the front of the building, and Louis exhales. 

“Thanks for the ride,” he says, leaning over to plop a kiss on his cheek before getting out. His feet ache but he endures it, just relieved he didn’t have to take the subway and walk back from work like he normally does. “I’ll call you later, okay?” 

“Okay,” Zayn says. “You know, I can keep giving you rides if you want. I’m sure Harry won’t mind either. He has a car, right?” 

“Yeah,” Louis says, unable to keep the frown off his face. 

“He still hasn’t come over?” Zayn asks, incredulous. “How long has it been now?” 

“Almost two weeks,” Louis mumbles, biting his lip. It’s not like Harry has completely ghosted him or anything, texting him at least once a day and often more, but he hasn’t come over a single time since their anniversary and Louis has no idea why. 

He doesn’t know how to bring it up either because Harry is acting as if everything’s normal. His subtle suggestions for Harry coming over to watch a film or hang out have all been met with excuses. He even offered to come to Harry’s which he’s only done a few times since they started dating but Harry brushed that off too. They haven’t seen each other physically for two weeks, and although their schedules are difficult to work around usually - it’s never been this long. 

“I think you should just confront him,” Zayn says, and Louis nods. That _is_ the rational route to take, but he can’t bring himself to do it. 

The truth is, Louis often still feels like he’s walking on eggshells when it comes to their relationship. Things have been so good between them - Harry hasn’t opened up to him fully but he was _trying._ Every little piece of information he offered to Louis was immediately stored in the deepest part of his heart. But then suddenly it stopped. First it was Harry saying he’d be sleeping at his when he’d been sleeping at Louis’ for weeks at that point - Louis had been seriously considering asking him to move in with him full-time, for fuck’s sake. Then it was the following week’s worth of distance, Harry citing a big work deadline as his excuse. 

But Louis refused to worry, telling himself that Harry was just busy and that everything would be fine. It seemed even more realistic when Harry came to dinner with him and Zayn on Friday like they’ve been making a habit of doing a couple times a month. He was perfectly normal the entire time, conversing with Zayn and sitting with his hand on Louis’ thigh all through dinner. Louis had dropped any concerns he had in a heartbeat. 

Then came the past two weeks. 

Louis isn’t sure what’s going through Harry’s head. It may be that he’s dealing with something and he’ll tell Louis about it when he’s ready, or just that he needs some space for a little while - they have been spending a lot of time together. Maybe he feels trapped. But he _promised_ he’d communicate. He put a ring on Louis’ finger and promised.

A big part of him worries that Harry has changed his mind completely. About the promise, and about Louis. 

“What about…” Zayn trails off, giving him a meaningful look. 

“No, not yet,” Louis murmurs, sighing when Zayn gives him that look again. “I know, I know. I have to do it. I’m just so fucking scared, Z.”

“You need to face your fears and get this over with or else you’ll be scared for the next nine months and trust me, this is the last thing you should be afraid of then,” Zayn says. 

“God, I know,” Louis says, squeezing his eyes shut. “Things have been so good lately. They’ve been _so_ good, but ever since our anniversary… it feels like Harry is pulling away, and I’m terrified that he’s having doubts.

“He’s head-over-heels for you, Lou,” Zayn says. “And you can’t deny it. I’ve seen it in person now, more than once. He looks at you like you’re the best thing he’s ever seen.” 

Louis’ heart pangs. “What if that’s not enough?” he asks. “What if he stops looking at me like that when he finds out? What if he breaks up with me?”

Zayn scoffs. “I doubt it,” he says. “But you can’t know for sure unless you _tell him._ You can’t avoid it forever. The more you wait, the more you’ll dig yourself into a hole of worry and fear. You just have to do it.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis says, pouting. “I’ll do it today.” When Zayn gives him a skeptical look in response, he crosses his arms. “I will!”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Zayn says, shaking his head. It isn’t said with any malice. He sits back in his seat. “Take care of yourself,” he says then, giving him a pointed look. “See you tomorrow. Love you.” 

“See you, love you,” Louis says in response, waving jokingly as Zayn backs out. He drives away and Louis watches, knowing he now has to contact Harry and tell him they have to talk. His hand drifts down to his stomach on instinct, curling around the almost non-existent bump and imagining what it’s going to look like in a few days, weeks, months. 

Ending up pregnant was certainly not the plan, though he’s had just over a month now to come to terms with it. He’s had that month to come to terms with it… and also to decide that he wants to keep the baby. He’s always wanted kids, and even though this is much earlier than he intended, he believes he’s in a good place both financially and mentally to take on this next stage of life. 

Except, he hasn’t told Harry yet. He’s about three months pregnant, and Harry has absolutely no idea. At first Louis didn’t tell him because he hadn’t quite processed it himself. He still remembers the day he found out with startling clarity - October 19th. He had been feeling on and off for over a week at that point and maybe he should have connected the dots but the possibility truly didn’t occur to him until Chelsea jokingly suggested it at the hospital.

It had been like a slap in the face, and then like all the pieces were aligning and things made sense. He remembers being distracted for the rest of his shift, unable to function to his full capacity. 

The urine test he got a friend from OB/GYN to administer after his shift confirmed it. He was pregnant. And the first thing he did upon hearing the news was burst into tears. 

When he gathered himself, he made the trip back to his apartment where Harry was waiting. Louis remembers acting as if nothing was amiss, still in denial. 

Even as the denial wore off and he began to consider where to go from there, he put off telling Harry. Even after their one-year anniversary where Louis was moments from finally saying those three words, he couldn’t bring himself to tell the news and ruin the perfect, _loving_ atmosphere that enveloped the entire day. 

And then came Harry’s distance and Louis’ will to tell him dwindled with every consumed excuse. It’s no excuse, he knows. This baby is half Harry’s and he deserves to know, even if it changes things between them. If it _ends_ things between them. 

_I have to tell him,_ he tells himself. And he needs to do it in person. Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he finally moves from the curb and heads for the door, typing out a text.

A pained cry stops him in his tracks, hand poised near the door. He spins around, eyes finding a man lying prone on the sidewalk a bit away. His eyes widen in horror, sore feet moving before he realizes it. 

“Excuse me? Hello, are you alright?” he asks, crouching by the body. He determines that the man is unconscious but breathing normally, which means they’ve fainted. 

Following the proper steps for initiating a recovery position, Louis carefully turns him over onto his back and then on his side to maximize the airway. He waits a little bit to see if he’ll wake up, ready to call 911 if needed. 

Thankfully, the man shifts a few minutes later, breath hitching as he blinks awake.

“Excuse me,” Louis says, waiting for their eyes to meet so he can hold direct contact. “Sir, you’ve just fainted. Are you feeling alright?” 

“I’m okay,” he says after a moment, voice strained and labored. His arms shake as he tries to lift himself from the ground. 

Louis immediately tries to assist, nearly bringing them both down in the process. Carefully he helps the man up, gasping when the man stumbles again and Louis stumbles with him.

“Sorry, sorry. I’m so sorry,” the man says, sounding embarrassed and frustrated. “It’s my fault. Low blood sugar. I have type 1 diabetes so this isn’t anything unusual.”

“Do you have a G-pen on you?” Louis asks, because he probably doesn’t have any snacks.

“This is going to sound so irresponsible of me but no,” the man says, sounding sheepish. “I normally do but I left it in the car.” He grimaces. “It’s a bit down the block.” 

“I’ll help you there,” Louis says, concerned by the lingering quiver in his arms and legs. It’s his natural instinct to help and care for, and he wants to make sure this man is alright. 

“I really wouldn’t want to cause any inconvenience but if you’re able to, that would be great. Thank you so much,” he says, sounding guilty but grateful. 

“It’s nothing,” Louis assures him. 

Even though the stranger is somewhat able to walk himself, Louis still hovers by him in case he falls or faints again. They walk slowly and carefully down the sidewalk. 

“My car is just there,” the man says finally, gesturing sloppily to the red Subaru. 

Louis nods, letting go of him. His heart refuses to let him leave until he’s confirmed that the man will be alright so he waits as he unlocks his car and digs through the front compartment, pulling out a nondescript G-pen. 

“Thank you so much, Louis. Truly,” he says.

Time seems to stand still as Louis processes the words, brows dipping in confusion. He’s pretty sure he didn’t offer up his name. Before he can respond, the man lunges toward him, G-pen outstretched.

The last thing Louis is aware of is the sharp prod of a needle into his skin, injecting something into him that makes his blood turn to syrup. His vision goes dark, and he crumples. 

{★}

The last day of Lawrence Argent’s life looks a little like this.

He wakes up at five in the morning like he always does, going on a run around the block and then returning to his house to shower and have breakfast: oatmeal. Maybe he’ll switch on the news and let the voices blur into a meaningless buzz in the back of his head. He takes his time, no reason to rush. He has enough money that he never has to think about working again. 

Eventually, he goes down into his basement and trains. On the average day, he’ll typically spend most of his day down there, going through different circuits involving rigorous physical exercises, weapons training, and immunity practices with small amounts of poison he’s been slowly consuming in increasing amounts for years now. That’s what he usually does. 

Today goes a bit differently. 

At noon on the dot, the doorbell rings. Lawrence goes to answer it, surprised and then confused to see a man standing outside dressed in a generic handyman uniform. His tag reads Luke Henderson. His eyes are a piercing green. 

“Hey, man. I’m here about the sink,” is what he says, flashing a smile. 

“What?” Lawrence says, taken off guard. 

“The sink,” the man - Luke - replies. “It’s leaking.” 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Lawrence says, frowning. He was in the middle of doing some pull-ups, sweat still soaking his skin, and this random idiot has shown up for God knows what reason. “My sink isn’t leaking.” 

“Aren’t you Lawrence Argent?” Luke says, arching a brow. “We literally talked on the phone yesterday. You said your sink was leaking and told me to come over and take a look.” 

Lawrence frowns, appraising the man before him carefully. He’s in his mid-twenties, posture slumped and right hand curled around a utility kit. He’s got a bit of a lost air about him, broad and built but maybe not so smart. Except he clearly seems to know his name. “I didn’t call anyone about a sink,” he says, narrowing his eyes. “Is this a prank?” 

Luke looks confused now. “I’m just here to fix your sink, man,” he says, shrugging. “I can just take a quick look at it. It won’t take long.” 

“My sink isn’t broken,” Lawrence says, teeth grit. “What the hell are you talking about?” 

“It’s leaking,” Luke insists, shouldering past him. Lawrence is so confused that he doesn’t even realize until he’s inside. “I can fix it in an hour or less. Don’t worry, man.”

“What are you doing?” Lawrence exclaims, letting go of the door so he can move in front of the handyman and block him from continuing in. “You can’t just walk into someone’s home.” 

Instead of apologizing, Luke blinks at him, standing motionless. Then suddenly he reaches behind his back and shuts the door. The lock clicks and the clueless expression on his face drops in a second. 

It hits Lawrence then that he’s made a mistake. 

{★}

It’s dangerous, perhaps, to go into an elimination without his mask on, his actual face exposed for everyone to see. It’s dangerous, but Harry isn’t concerned. He thinks it’s fitting that the last person he’ll ever kill is the only one to see his face. 

And his face is the last thing they’ll ever see. 

“Argos sent you, didn’t he?” Lawrence says, making Harry twitch. So apparently even ex-assassins are not above stalling. 

Even so, Harry responds by taking the gun that’s been strapped to his hip and pointing at him. 

“For fuck’s sake,” Lawrence mutters, and then he lunges forward. Harry presses the trigger, shot ringing out in the air. However, Lawrence just barely dodges it, bullet grazing the skin of his exposed bicep before he tackles Harry to the floor. The gun in his grip goes sprawling to the right, but Harry expected that. A gun isn’t what he planned for the weapon of elimination. “You’re going to regret this.” 

“If you kill me, he’ll just send more,” Harry says, casual, even as Lawrence’s hands close around his neck. His breath hitches when the pressure registers, but he maintains eye contact. The talking is new but he wanted to try it out for his last mark. “Don’t avoid the inevitable.” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Lawrence says. He appears almost wild, eyes wide with rage and veins prominent in his forehead. “This was a fool’s mission.” 

Vision getting spotty, Harry reaches down and slides the blade out from his pocket and slashes it down his arm. The grip on his neck loosens but Lawrence retaliates by kneeing him straight in the solar plexus, pinning him to the floor and knocking the air out of his lungs. 

Then Lawrence punches him in the face. Straight in the nose. 

He hisses at the impact, feeling the warm rush of blood pooling at his nose. _Mature,_ he thinks. He’s honestly sort of enjoying himself. This is already the most promising opposition he’s ever gotten from a target - the most challenge. Lawrence has been trained in all the same things he has, but he has a special affinity for savate - French foot fighting - and sharpshooting, though there’s little chance of that at the moment. Those skills and his notoriety for living among the shadows are what gave him the name _Wraith,_ and they’re also why Harry is determined to keep him on the ground rather than on his feet.

However, this current position allows Lawrence to finally reach his boot where he yanks a knife out and slashes it in the general direction of Harry’s face. “I’ll slice you up,” he spits, sounding half-crazed. 

Harry stabs him in the side and then uses the momentary unbalance to roll them both onto their sides. He expected Argent to be armed at all times, of course - all assassins are. He stabs forward, going for the heart, but Argent blocks and reciprocates. It becomes a dance: deflect, strike, deflect, strike. Argent is clumsy but forceful in his movements, pure rage fuelling his every thrust even as the wounds in his arm and side slow him down. 

But as Harry adapts to Argent’s fighting style, Argent is observing him in turn, finding the cracks in his armor. In other words, he goes for Harry’s face again. Harry is sloppy in his parry, allowing Argent to hit the back of his elbow. Elbows aren’t like wrists - they are connected to the nerves running down his arm and into his palm. His hold on the knife loosens and Argent slaps it straight out of his hand. 

Before Harry can recover, Argent is rolling up and onto him, knife stabbing down and impaling into his hip just below the edge of the vest. 

He chokes, pain erupting in his hip, but his knee comes up on autopilot, getting Lawrence in the balls. He falters for only a second, but it’s enough for Harry to escape his grip and scramble back, carpet cutting at the skin of his elbows through his shirt. Lawrence staggers towards him, foot snaking out and connecting with Harry’s already injured side in a powerful kick. Harry grunts in pain, surging up and grasping at the fabric covering his other arm. He just barely has enough time to kick his legs up as Lawrence lunges forward. One foot flattens against Lawrence’s hip and the other to his bicep in a spider guard, toes straining as Lawrence struggles against the grip. 

From there he maximizes Lawrence’s temporary confusion and knocks the knife out of his hand, bringing his right leg up into a lasso hold under Lawrence’s arm and then does a classic BJJ inversion, spinning on his back out from between Lawrence’s legs and then using the momentum to yank him down to the floor again. 

Harry stumbles to his feet, grabbing the discarded knife and diving forward before Lawrence can find his bearings, blade plunging deep into his chest. His last words are a strangled curse, eyes fluttering back into his head as he goes slack. Harry holds the knife in its place long after, waiting for his heart to stop pounding. 

After marking Lawrence with the paint, Harry rises on shaky legs, vision going fuzzy at the corners and thick blood still pooling at the back of his throat. An experimental prod at his tender nose makes him wince in pain. It’s definitely broken. 

However, his hip is the most pressing concern, fabric slick against the wound. His shirt is soaked with blood, so dark that it looks more black than red. He can feel the adrenaline fade, pain finally registering in full fold. It hurts when he takes a step but he pushes through. All he can think about is that it’s over. 

It’s finally over. He’s finished. He’s out - almost, at least. He needs to formally resign to the High Table with Aleksander’s blessing but that will only take another couple of days at most. 

And then he’s _out._

His side decides he’s ignored it too much, sharp shocks of pain overtaking the flesh. He hisses in pain, vertigo enveloping him for a moment as bile rises in his throat. He needs to see a medic, and fast. 

{★}

A couple hours later, Harry is laying back on the examination chair, shirtless, as the checkpoint medic finishes stitching him up. He’s still a bit lightheaded from the blood loss even with the meds, but he knows he’ll recover. His nose has been bandaged with gauze already, pain dulled to a throb. All things considered, Harry is pretty okay. 

The relief and joy hasn’t faded much even when he turned in his last marker and officially completed his final assignment with the Guild. He’s sad about some things, of course. It’s High Table rules that once he resigns he will no longer be permitted to maintain contact with anyone he’s met from the underground. That means he’ll have to say goodbye to Neera, Oz, and any other acquaintance for good. However, it doesn’t mean he’ll have to say goodbye to Aleksander since he knew Aleksander before he was officially enrolled at the Akademiya and therefore under High Table law. 

He’s glad for it too. Aleksander has been many things for him: his godfather, his legal guardian, his mentor, his boss… but he’s also just been there for him in general. He’s been there when Harry had no one, and Harry is glad to know he’ll continue to be there. 

As if summoned by his thoughts, the medic hands his phone to him and he sees an incoming call from ‘Vuk.’

“I did it,” Harry says upon answering, allowing some of his giddiness to shine through. 

Aleksander’s response cuts him cold. “The assassin I sent to shadow your lover was killed.” 

“What?” he says, sitting up abruptly. The room shifts around him and the medic gives him a reprimanding smack, holding up the bandages in warning. He feels dazed as he lies back. down “What do you mean?” 

“Two shots to the head. It happened sometime this morning but I did not find out until she failed to send me her debrief at one,” Aleksander says. He pauses, breath heavy through the line. “The last sighting of your boyfriend was at work. That was six hours -” 

Harry is hanging up before he can finish, nausea crawling up his throat. _He’s fine,_ he tells himself. Louis is fine. Louis is fine. His fingers struggle to pull up his contacts, jabbing the first contact and waiting with his teeth dug into his lip. 

“Pick up, pick up,” Harry urges, ignoring the medic’s confused look. “Damn it, pick up.” 

Louis doesn’t pick up. The call goes dead, and Harry is officially panicked. He’s fine, he has to be fine. 

“How much longer?” he asks the medic. 

She doesn’t respond, wrapping the bandage one more time around before stepping back. Harry slides off the chair and grabs a fresh shirt, calling out a rushed “Thank you!” before bolting from the room. 

He really shouldn’t be running right now, but he can’t bring himself to stop. He exits the checkpoint and heads for his assigned car parked out front. Technically, he’s not supposed to be using it for non-Guild purposes but that rule is immediately thrown out the window. He tries to call Louis one last time, hearing his voicemail before swearing. He taps out a text telling Louis to call him ASAP just in case he’s miraculously in the shower or something and then takes off. 

Thankfully, Louis’ apartment isn’t too far and Harry pays no care to traffic laws or general courtesy as he drives with his foot glued to the gas pedal. His heart is in his throat as he parks sloppily at the curb and stumbles out of his car, steps thundering against the pavement as he rushes inside. He isn’t capable of waiting for the lift so he runs up the stairs, body buzzing with nerves. 

In the end, he doesn’t even have to enter Louis’ apartment to know. 

The proof is taped to the door in the form of a letter, **Koschei** printed across the front. That cursed smell seeps into his nostrils and he staggers back. His hands shake as he rips the paper from the wood, fingers quivering so much at the seal that he ends up spilling the contents of the envelope to the floor. 

His heart stutters when he sees the ring glinting up at him - silver and braided. Unmistakable. Next is the pictures. There’s over a dozen of them, blurry and shot from a distance. Louis is featured prominently in every single one. Walking Clifford, talking on the phone as he waits to cross the street, laughing with Zayn at Starbucks, exiting the hospital. There’s only one where he’s with Harry - it’s from their anniversary, walking down Broadway with their hands linked and faces illuminated from all the building lights. 

His nausea grows with every one, close to throwing up when he reaches the final paper. The note. It’s startlingly brief:

**Koschei,**

**4 pm @ the Continental. Dress nice, don’t be late.**

And there, at the very bottom is:

**P.S. Congrats on the baby.**

Harry drops the note. He drops all the pictures too, watching them flutter to the floor as he stands there, feet rooted in place. The only thing that jars him is the incessant buzzing of his phone and even then the only reason he looks is because some mad, delusional part of him is hoping it’s Louis. 

It’s not. It’s Aleksander, and Harry answers because he doesn’t know what else to do. _Congrats on the baby. Congrats on the_ baby. 

“Koschei? Is he okay?” Aleksander asks. He lets out a breath when Harry doesn’t answer. “We’ll find him.” 

“I know where he is,” Harry interrupts. “Where he _will_ be,” he amends, then reveals the note. 

“You’re going, aren’t you,” Aleksander says. It isn’t spoken like a question. 

Harry squeezes his eyes shut, feeling like someone has reached into his chest and pulled his heart right from its cavity. “I have to go.” 

“Right now, you are vulnerable,” Aleksander says warningly. “They have the upper hand - the leverage and the plan - and they will use it against you. They will use _him_ against you, Harry.” It’s a testament to how serious he’s being that he uses Harry’s actual name. 

“This is a price I cannot pay,” Harry says. He hangs up before Aleksander can protest, breathing deeply as he leans his arm against the door. _Congrats on the baby._ His fist collides with the wall. 

When he catches his breath, he picks up all the photos, refusing to look at them. He picks up the ring too, unable to even consider the idea of sliding it back onto his own finger. It’s not his ring anymore.

He puts his in his pocket and then starts walking, mind already shifting to the suit he has hanging up in the closet back at his apartment. 

{★}

The Continental has been an integral part of the underground for as long as anyone can remember. It’s hidden in plain sight, residing on the five-point intersection of Wall, Pearl, and Beaver. Harry makes his way to the entrance, nodding at the two uniform doormen briefly. 

He’s wearing his black filigree mask, hair slicked back and suit pressed smooth. His face remains impassive as he shows the concierge his High Table seal ring and books a room. His eyes flicker over to the clock where the minute hand is sliding to 3:47.

Where he’s meant to meet his anonymous sender is something he doesn’t know, but he has a feeling they’ll take care of that for him so he goes to his room. 

Like all rooms at the Continental, Harry’s is lavish and grand - all rich wood floors, four poster beds, and golden accents. He’s been in one of these rooms plenty of times before, for galas and meetings and other mixed events. The Continental is the Switzerland of the underground, a place for middle ground and temporary peace. 

It is simultaneously the best and worst place to carry out a ransom. See, the Continental has very strict and specific rules.

The first and most important is that no business can be conducted within its gates. Assassins cannot kill or spread bloodshed in the hotel. It’s such a serious offence that the consequences fall to the High Table themselves: excommunication at the very least and a hefty bounty for increased violation. The rule only applies to those who are participants of the business, which leads Harry to consider the identity and role of his sender. 

On one hand, they clearly have an extreme knowledge of the Guild, Aleksander, and of Harry himself, that leaves Harry feeling disturbed. It’s information that can only be known by an assassin. But then why choose one of the only places on Earth that assassins are not allowed to kill? It’d only be worse if they picked a church or elementary school, both equally illegal and horrifying. 

Something else continues to tug at him too: the perfume, so familiar yet so difficult to identify, was present in both the notes. It has to be important. 

All too fast, a knock comes at the door. Harry checks the peering hole before opening it when he recognizes a member of the staff.

“Master Koschei, you have been extended an invitation to the courtyard,” the man says.

Harry nods, steeling himself. He thinks of Louis, and feels the sparks of anger to start up again. He has no idea who’s threatening him, but he knows they hold a vendetta against him - a quest for vengeance. But instead of coming for him, they came for Louis. Suddenly, he’s furious, and the hot coals ignite, filling his throat and mouth. 

It’s a coward’s move. Going after a loved one to hurt someone. It’s the move of a monster, taunting him with something priceless. 

_Congrats on the baby._

Harry finally allows himself to consider it. Consider the chance that it’s the truth. He recalls Louis feeling sick, coming back from the hospital even more tired than usual, asking Harry to massage his shoulders twice as much as usual. Louis, Louis, Louis. Pregnant. With _his_ baby. 

He squeezes his eyes shut. He checks the gun in his holster, fully loaded and ready. It’s not illegal to carry an arm on the Continental grounds for image purposes, but it is illegal to use it. He has his usual knife in his boot and another strapped to his hip. They too are not to be used, but he feels comforted in the knowledge that they are there. 

Aleksander is right; his stalkers have the upper hand right now. They have a plan, and Harry needs to be ready for it. No, not Harry - _Koschei._ Koschei is the one who cheats death and defeats the impossible. Harry said goodbye to him earlier today but he needs him one last time. 

With another deep breath, he steps out into the hallway. 

{★}

The courtyard is almost empty when Harry arrives, as it tends to be when specific parties reserve the space for allotted time. His eyes drift over the perfectly trimmed lawn and decorative hedges. There’s a fountain on the side closest to the building, flanked by two garden tables. 

It’s at the far table where Harry first sees the man. He’s dressed in a suit, head ducked and not paying attention to his surroundings. A martini glass sits by his elbow, empty. 

Harry slows for a second, before closing the final distance between them as he comes to a halt in front of the table. The man looks up and their eyes meet. His are hazel, features sharp and angled. His hair is slicked back, face clean-shaven, and even though he’s sitting down, Harry can guess they’re somewhere around the same height. This appraisal leaves him with one main conclusion: Harry has no fucking clue who he is. In contrast, he looks at Harry as if they’re long-time acquaintances. 

“Koschei! It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” he says, and then pats the table. He has a slight Italian accent, but it sounds strange and clipped on his words almost as if he were purposely emphasizing it. “Please, sit down.” 

Deciding to play along for now, Harry pulls a chair back, metal scraping the ground, and then takes a seat slowly. “Where is he?” he asks. 

“So impatient,” the man tuts. “We have more important things to discuss.” 

“Who are you then?” Harry asks, arching a brow. He’s never seen this man before in his life.

“You don’t know me, but I know you,” the man says, tilting his head. “Harry Styles.” 

This time Harry does flinch. It makes sense that the sender would know his name, especially if they knew about Louis, but having it spoken aloud by his unfamiliar lips is more jarring than he expected. “What do you want?” he tries. 

“Asking the good stuff now, finally,” he says, clapping his hands together. “The one thing I want most is something that I can’t have, and that is my sister back. So I must settle for the second thing I want most, and that is for her murderer to suffer the consequences.” 

Harry stills, feeling the hidden accusation in his words. “I murdered her,” he says, not a question. 

“You did,” the man says, and Harry can finally see the fire in his eyes, the _hatred._

Steepling his hands together, Harry weighs his options. It’s impossible to know who he’s speaking of when Harry has killed hundreds of people in his life. “I may have killed her, but I can assure you I’m not the one who wanted her dead,” he says, slow. “I’m a contract killer.” It’s a very roundabout way of saying, _it wasn’t personal._

The man _laughs._ “This kill wasn’t a contract, believe me,” he says. “It was entirely you and your judgement when you shot her.” 

He frowns, feeling a sense of awareness overtake him. The perfume, Giordano… He exhales, and a face flashes before his eyes. The face of a woman he killed two years ago on the roof of a building not more than a couple blocks away. A face of a woman he’s seen from afar at all sorts of events at the Continental, donning a ruby red mask and often in the company of men such as Ethan Giordano. A fellow _assassin_ who went rogue, turning on Harry when they were assigned the same mark by some grave error. Someone he killed when the choice was between her and his own life. 

They don’t look very much alike, this man and his sister, but there is no doubt who he means. “You… are the brother of Vittoria Scott,” he says. The one non-mark he’s ever killed, justified before the High Table as an act of defense. 

“Ah, you do remember,” he says, holding a hand out. Harry shakes it, reluctant. _Her murderer to suffer the consequences._ “Christopher. That’s my name.” 

“You want revenge, _Christopher,”_ Harry says, resting his hands flat against the table. “You hate me because I killed your sister before she killed me. And I don’t have a sister, but I have a boyfriend, right?” Really, it’s simple when he thinks about it. He killed Vittoria, and now Christopher wants him to make them even. Except they’re here at the Continental 

“Clever man,” Christopher says, lifting his glass to down the remaining liquid quickly. “So here’s what’s going to happen.” He waves a hand in the air and Harry turns to the right just in time to see figures break away from behind the tall hedges. 

His heart leaps to his throat the moment Louis comes into view. He’s not wearing the Continental-required dresswear, looking small in his sweater and jeans, a gag stuffed in his mouth and his hands touching the back of his neck. He’s flanked by two taller men, and a third is following them with the nozzle of his gun pressed to Louis’ back. Harry wants to cry when their eyes finally meet and he sees the confusion and panic in Louis’ gaze. 

“You can drop the gun,” Christopher says, smiling pleasantly. “My apologies, Louis. The gun was unloaded - consider it a scare tactic.” He gestures to one of the men. “Pull up a chair for him.” 

Louis is prodded over to a third chair, pushed down and then handcuffed with his arms through the openings in the back of the chair. His eyes don’t leave Harry’s; there's a layer of pleading in them that makes Harry’s heart ache. 

“We’re all here,” Christopher says, looking pleased. He pauses. “Well, _almost.”_

Harry turns to him, trying to stay calm. “If you intend to kill him, why here?” he asks. “A place where you aren’t allowed to kill anyone.” 

Christopher looks amused. “What is the first rule of the Continental, Harry?” 

“No business shall be conducted on hotel grounds,” Harry says flatly. 

“Business,” Christopher repeats. “That would affect me if I were an assassin like you.” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Louis jerk. His stomach twists. “But I am not. I am not a citizen of the underground nor will I ever be. Vittoria joined to protect me, did you know? To keep us both off the streets.” 

“If you’re not under the High Table then you aren’t even allowed to be here,” Harry says.

“True,” Christopher says. “Luckily for me, Ethan wasn’t Vittoria’s only friend underground. I was snuck in along with your Louis here and the High Table will be none the wiser.” He gestures up to the cameras tacked around the courtyard, to the side of the building or wired to trees. “She also took care of any observation, but before you get brave, there is one of _my_ cameras hidden somewhere you won’t find and it’s filming.” His smile is thin. “So easy to clip videos these days.” 

Harry presses down on the slow trickle of panic forming inside him. “How’d you find me?” he asks, deciding his best course of action is to gather information. “How did you know I was the one who did it?’ 

Christopher seems delighted by this question. “I’m so glad you asked,” he says. “The High Table did their best to cover up your crime after you were declared not guilty, but there’s still a few people that knew. A few people who know the inner workings of the Guild and your actual identity, Harry. Like I said, Vittoria had many friends.” He clears his throat, turning to the side. 

Automatically, Harry turns with him, feeling his heart start pounding. The first person that pops to the front of his mind is _Aleksander -_ he’s the only one that knew about Louis that he knew of and he has access to all sorts of information about Harry’s life and identity. But in his heart, it doesn’t ring true. 

Still, who _does_ walk out into the courtyard then has Harry freezing in place. 

Oz looks years younger in a full suit and tie, face shaved and hair combed back. He doesn’t look at Harry as he walks toward them, nodding at Christopher briefly before he takes the final seat at the table.

For a minute, Harry feels like he’s been stabbed in the chest, lungs contracting and throat dry. Oz, his _friend_ Oz, the one he’s trained with and confided in month after month. Oz is the mole, the traitor, the one who led Christopher straight to Harry - to _Louis_ \- without a second thought. 

When Oz finally deigns to turn his gaze on Harry, Harry is filled with rage, burning through his bloodstream until his fingers are curling into the side of the table. 

“Please, discuss,” Christopher says, waving his hands towards them with some sort of sick glee. 

“How long?” Harry asks Oz, voice rough.

“Have I been assisting Christopher? Since you killed Vittoria and got away with it without any consequences,” he says. “How long have I hated you? From the very beginning.”

 _Hated you._ It almost feels impossible to comprehend. his friend and colleague who’s joked with him a dozen times is now staring at him with so much loathing.

“Why?” he asks, because in the end, he wants to know. Why does Oz carry this resentment towards him so strong that he was willing to pretend for _years_ that he liked him. 

“Because you have everything I want and it’s still not enough for you,” Oz says, lips curling into a snarl. “You’ve always been the Guild golden boy, so high and mighty and separate from all the rest of us. Argos favored you and everyone knew it. But you don’t want any of it, and you don’t deserve it either.” 

Harry shakes his head. “I was good to you,” he says, still floored with disbelief. 

“You were good to me?” Oz snorts. “Yeah, Harry, you were perfectly nice to me every time you decided to bless me with your company or give me the privilege of listening to your problems.” He shakes his head. “We never could have been friends. Not when you were reaping the glory and fear of your admirers and I was the fool stuck in his office all day.” 

“What admirers?” Harry scoffs.

“Your name leaves people whispering and staring. Stories are told of your past triumphs. The novices talk of you like you’re a hero. Argos can’t go one bimonthly meeting without mentioning you,” Oz spits. “And you never even _cared.”_

“I didn’t _know_ is more like it,” Harry grits. 

“When you murdered another assassin, the High Table let you off without even a temporary suspension or reprimanding,” Oz continues, rage growing in his voice. “Argos probably even pulled some strings. Anything for his most precious weapon!”

“She tried to kill me,” Harry says, slowly. “I was granted amnesty because it was _self-defense._ She’s the one that broke conduct and refused to negotiate.”

“Watch yourself,” Christopher interrupts, speaking for the first time during his and Oz’s back-and-forth. He’s leaning back in his chair, listening with a casual interest and a detached sort of amusement. It pisses Harry off.

“The only people who know what happened between you two are you and her and she never got to tell her side of the story,” Oz counters. “I would sooner trust a mark than trust your word.”

Harry’s jaw sets. “This is ridiculous,” he says. 

“You know what’s unfair? The High Table deciding I was no longer fit to continue my activities as an assassin after I lost my leg and demoting me to a desk job,” Oz snaps. “Argos offered me head of the Gramercy branch a few months later, acting like he was giving me a gift from God. In reality, he _pitied_ me. You all pitied me.” He turns to Christopher. “Except Vittoria. She knew the High Table was corrupt from the beginning and then they proved her right by not giving her the justice she deserved.” 

“So you jumped at the chance to ruin me,” Harry says. 

“It was his idea to stage this at the Continental,” Christopher says casually. “And his insight on predicting things like Argos providing shadows to protect you and using Louis’ inherent nature as a nurse to abduct him with was vital.”

Harry has the sudden, overpowering desire to fling a knife into Oz’s chest. To watch that sick, satisfied glint in his eyes turn to shock and fear. “You are a coward,” he tells Oz. “A coward that doesn’t understand the cost of taking someone’s life. You talk about it as if it’s a matter of pride. They were right to expel you.”

It has Oz standing up, chair screeching against the ground. “You are the coward, Harry Styles. Argos should have just listened to your parents and kept you out of this life.” 

_Your parents._ Harry tenses. “What did you say?” 

Like he’s been waiting for this the entire time, Oz _smiles._ He slides a piece of paper out of his suit jacket and onto the table, then slides it to Harry who takes it hesitantly. “Argos may be the fearsome leader of the Guild but his Archive defenses are decades outdated.”

Harry turns the paper over, heart stuttering when he sees it’s a scan of a letter. _Dear Argos,_ He freezes. It’s written in his mother’s handwriting. _I hope you are well. I know I just sent you a letter and have not yet received your reply but I woke up early this morning from a bad dream and have been feeling sick all day. I will spare you the dark details but the dream involved Harry growing up and falling into the same life me and Edward just barely escaped and it has shaken me to my core._

_Those times are a phantom that haunts me in the dark and the guilt and pain has never really faded. The last thing I want is for him to suffer the same grief._

_I want you to promise me, Argos, that he will never end up like us. If I and Edward fail, I want you to promise me that you will do everything in your power to make sure Harry never becomes a monster like us._

The letter scan ends there but there’s a segment of another one attached below.

It says only two words in Aleksander’s familiar graceful scrawl. _I promise._

“It must hurt,” Oz says quietly, “to find out you were always just a pawn.” 

“This is fake,” Harry says, heart hammering against his ribs. He sounds about as certain as he feels. 

“You just don’t want to face the fact that Argos does not care about you at all,” Oz says. “He sees you as his sharpest knife and no more. All you really have is sweet Louis, and soon he’ll be six feet deep in the dirt like the rest of your family.” 

Harry shoots up in seconds, whipping his gun from his holster and pointing it at Oz as rage courses through him. “Don’t fucking say his name,” he says slowly. 

Oz only smiles wider. “You can point that at me all you want but we both know you won’t shoot me,” he says. “In the end, you’re a slave to the High Table just like the rest of us.” 

“Sit down, Harry,” Christopher sighs, a warning tone in his voice. “I was just beginning to enjoy myself.” 

“I’ll kill you all,” Harry says as he sits down, and he knows they can hear the promise in his voice. “If you hurt a single hair on his head, I promise I will hunt every single one of you down and make you regret the day you learned my name. You will be screaming it as you plead for mercy that I will not give.” 

“Koschei does have claws,” Christopher laughs. 

Harry meets his eyes, feeling destructive and reckless. “Your sister would be embarrassed by your cowardice.” 

Christopher’s face goes cold. “That’s enough playing games,” he says, standing up and moving behind Louis’ chair.

Louis makes a choked sound around the gag when Christopher grips a handful of his hair and yanks his head back. Christopher holds a hand out for a gun which Oz supplies and then he presses it up to Louis’ throat.

“How should we do this?” he asks almost conversationally. “There’s so many options to choose from, frankly. Bullet through the neck? The head? Or straight through the heart? A nice romantic touch.” He tilts his head. “Oz says you like knives. Would that be your preference? Somewhere where it’ll take longer so you can watch him bleed out for what feels like hours knowing you can do nothing but watch.” He lowers the gun to press against Louis’ stomach, and Louis makes a panicked sound around the gag. “Right _here_ maybe?” 

Each word feels like a needle digging into his skin, but Harry forces himself to remain composed. They want him to crack and he can’t give them the satisfaction. He needs a way out of this, but _how?_ He’s outnumbered five to one and bound by Guild rules. There is no way out but down. 

“Drag it out,” Oz suggests mildly. “I want to see if Koschei can cry.”

Christopher nods, sliding a concealed knife out from his belt and bringing it up to Louis’ cheekbone. “I’m sorry you had to get in the middle of this, Louis,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. 

Before the blade touches skin, Louis’ eyes turn to his - like he needs to be looking at Harry for some small ounce of comfort. Or maybe he’s pleading one last time. 

It doesn’t really matter, because in that split second of eye contact, Harry has a realization. 

He cannot live in a world without Louis Tomlinson.

No, it goes beyond even that. In this moment, Harry realizes that nothing else matters more than the way he cares about Louis. Harry would do anything for him, _be_ anything for him. And he will. 

The first time someone jokingly said Harry was faster than light itself was back at the Akademiya when he was first learning to spar, all clumsy but earnest movements and unbridled will. Anya had been supervising his match with another wolf and later she had told him that it was as if he was there one second and not there in the next, teleporting through the air in the blink of an eye. 

In this moment, Harry lives up to his reputation. He grabs his gun, switches the safety off, and by the time Christopher realizes it, it’s too late. The shot rings out in the air, followed quickly by another. 

Christopher dies with his mouth wide open and his eyes as big as saucers, a gaping hole in his forehead as the knife falls from his grip and hits the floor, his body crumpling with it.

Time seems to slow as Oz launches to his feet and grapples for his gun. Harry turns on him, tugging the knife strapped to his belt and then hurling it through the air like he’s done millions of times before during throwing sessions at the Guild spent with Oz watching him, _hating_ him, and scheming against him. The blade sinks into Oz’s forehead and he chokes on air, sinking to the floor. _Bulls-eye,_ Harry thinks. 

Louis is staring at Harry in horror when Harry glances at him to make sure the blade didn’t nick him through all the chaos. But his worry is intercepted by a roar of indignation and he remembers there are three other guys still present, all of whom had watched him kill their employer. 

He double taps the first in quick succession, just barely throwing himself out of the way of a bullet from the second. Except he doesn’t quite make it, letting out a pained grunt when his gun takes the brunt of the shot, sparks burning his fingers. It clatters to the ground and he hisses in pain, switching to his knife again. 

The man tries to take another shot, but Harry crashes into him and knocks it straight from the man’s grip, using his body as cover from the third man who’s attempting to get an angle with his own pistol. Before the man can retaliate, Harry is driving the knife straight into his throat. He makes a horrifying blubbering sound and then drops backwards.

Harry doesn’t have a moment to breathe before he’s being slammed to the ground, knife skidding from his grip and pain erupting along his left side as he struggles against the weight trying to pin him down. Harry fights for the gun in his grip, excess blood coating his fingers. In the end, he settles for keeping the gun pointed away from him and then hooks over his back to curl his arm around the man’s neck in a standard neck crank. 

He pauses, licking his bottom lip and tasting blood. “Close your eyes,” he practically growls to Louis who’s been watching everything in quiet horror.

Louis instantly looks like he’s going to defy, but he must realize Harry’s saying it for a reason because he shuts them right after, flinching at the gruesome _snap_ when Harry dislocates the guy’s neck, letting him drop to the ground with a thud as he springs back onto his feet and scans the surroundings.

When no one immediately jumps out from the bushes, he allows himself to relax, heart racing a million miles per hour. Before he can move toward Louis, a bright flash has him stilling.

He turns to see a projection flickering up against the side of the hotel, a cropped video of him killing Oz playing out on the screen in an endless loop. The quality is slightly fuzzy but it’s undeniably him throwing the knife, over and over. 

Fuck.

Their Continental friend must have been watching from afar. Forcing himself to switch back into action, he rushes towards Louis, undoing the ties and taking the gag out. Louis coughs, retching and heaving for breath. 

“What’s happening?” he asks, sounding confused and panicked. “Is he going to send that to the police?” 

Harry shakes his head, heart pounding. “Worse,” he murmurs, throat dry. “He’s sending it to the Guild and the High Table.” 

_Never kill one of your own._

_No business can be conducted on Continental grounds._

Gathering himself quickly, he turns back to the task at hand. Louis was cuffed in a way that makes it nearly impossible to pick the locks effectively - keyholes near Louis’ back and facing down. 

However, Harry’s years of practice leave him prepared. He reaches for his belt and undoes the buckle to pull it out of the loops. 

Louis’ eyes are wide. “What’re you doing?” 

Harry doesn’t answer. He finds the seam in the middle of the leather and parts the material to find the familiar hotwire that runs down the length before pulling it out completely. After discarding the belt, he then holds the wire taut between his fingers. It takes a couple seconds but eventually the metal sparks and glows bright, wisps of smoke curling from it. 

“Stay still,” he tells Louis, but Louis still stiffens when Harry holds the wire close to his bound hands, no doubt able to feel the heat radiating from its length. He winds the wire around the metal chain, careful to avoid the soft skin of Louis’ wrists. Then he tugs it tight, hearing the telltale sizzle as the burning metal begins to saw through the weaker chain links. 

They give a moment later, successfully freeing Louis’ arms. Then all it takes then is his lock-picker, sliding the wire into each keyhole and disabling both locks. They drop to the floor with clangs and then Louis is crashing into him, perfect and beautiful and alive. 

Harry can’t do anything except hold him, hands fitting over Louis’ back and tugging him closer, breathing him in. _Alive, alive, alive._ Louis buries his face into his neck, shaking and digging his fingers into Harry’s shoulders. 

“You killed five people in less than two minutes,” he says a moment later.

“Yes,” Harry swallows. “I did.” 

“I watched you kill five people in less than two minutes,” Louis says then, sounding dazed.

Harry can’t blame him. He’s probably still struggling to process what’s just happened, forced to undergo so much trauma in such little time. “You’re okay,” Harry says into his ear, squeezing him tighter. “Louis, you’re safe.”

“What about you?” Louis asks. 

He doesn’t answer, instead pulling back to run his eyes over Louis and check for anything amiss. He reaches Louis’ stomach and then he remembers, body going rigid. 

“How long?” he croaks, voice unrecognizable.

Louis doesn’t need any further elaboration. “Three months,” he says, a look of guilt overtaking his features. _Three months._

For one quick moment, Harry feels a burst of anger directed towards _Louis_ overtake him. It’s ill-timed and maybe unimportant, but it washes over him all the same. He can’t stop imagining what he’d do differently if he knew sooner, if there was a chance to avoid the events of today had he known there was twice as much he was fighting for. Instead, he found out from a _ransom note._ “For someone who talks a lot about communication, you don’t communicate very well,” is what he says. 

“I’m sorry,” Louis says, looking so guilty. “I’m so sorry, Harry.” 

That takes him off guard. He shakes his head. “Louis, _I’m_ sorry,” he says. “This - this is all my fault. He wanted to hurt _me,_ but he came after you and I couldn’t stop him.” He squeezes his eyes shut. They don’t have time for this. “It’s not safe,” he says, opening them. 

Louis digs his nails into his shoulders. “What’s not safe? What’s happening?” 

“I broke the code,” Harry says, wincing. “Twice.” 

“What does that mean?” Louis asks. 

“It means that I’ve been officially declared excommunicado,” Harry murmurs. “I am no longer allowed to use or access any underground resources and facilities nor affiliate with any associated organizations.” He pauses to swallow. “It means there’s a bounty on my head.” 

“A bounty,” Louis echoes, a bit hysterically. “Like -"

“Like a prize for killing me,” Harry confirms. “They’ll send out my location too so in a few minutes, they’ll be swarming over here to lure me off grounds and kill me.” 

“But… you saved me,” Louis says, panicked. 

“They don’t even know you were taken in the first place,” Harry says. “As far as they know, I just brutally murdered one of my coworkers unprovoked on sacred grounds.” 

“Can’t you just explain?” Louis asks. 

Harry lets out a startled laugh. “Believe me, there’s not enough time for that,” he says. “People down here… we don’t wait for explanations.” The footage has been sent - the High Table will declare him excommunicado without any other needed information. 

“So… what do we do?” Louis asks, and Harry feels his heart ache because there’s no ‘we’ anymore. 

“I’m so lucky I met you,” he says. “And that I got to know you, even if it was shorter than I wanted.” 

“What? Harry, you’re not -” He breaks off, making an incoherent sound. He looks distressed, the wetness in his eyes finally streaming out into tears down his cheeks. “What are you saying?” 

He brushes the tears away on instinct, wincing when Louis grips his sore arm tightly. “Lou, you have to go,” he says slowly. “You’re an innocent so you’ll be fine. But I have to face this. Alone.” 

Louis is shaking his head panickedly, fingers digging into his elbow and his shirt. “No. H - Harry, no. You can’t.” 

“I have to,” he repeats calmly, cradling both sides of Louis’ face and taking a second to memorize every feature in case this is the last time he sees it. He reluctantly pulls one hand away to pull the ring out from his pocket. Then he takes Louis’ trembling hand and slides it back onto his pointer finger where it belongs. Louis has his eyes squeezed shut, muffling his sobs against his hand. Harry takes a deep breath and says something he hasn’t said in seventeen years. “I love you.”

This time Louis doesn’t cover it, choking out a cry as he presses his face into Harry’s chest. “I love you,” he says, shaking. It rocks Harry to his core. Even after all of this, even after Louis has seen him as he is with all his secrets stripped bare, Louis loves him. “Don’t go,” he whimpers, soaking his shirt with tears. “Don’t go. Please don’t go.” 

Harry glances at his watch, knowing he doesn’t have much time. He turns back to Louis and kisses his forehead before meeting his eyes. The lie falls from his lips without an ounce of remorse. “There’s a gate around the building. Go back to your flat, I’ll be there in a bit.” 

It doesn’t take a genius to see that Louis doesn’t believe him. Still, he nods jerkily, voice wavering as he says, “Okay. I’ll see you then.” He lets Harry step back, his own hands still lifted and outstretched, reaching out and trying to hold on a little longer. “I’ll order takeout,” he says shakily. “Your favorite.” 

Eyes burning a tad, Harry just nods. “Thanks, baby,” he murmurs. 

Louis waits a minute, expression so anguished that Harry hurts to look at him. Then he takes a step back. Another, then another. Finally, he turns away and starts walking for real. His strides are steady and quick, but Harry can see the way he has to force himself to put one foot in front of the other, forcing the distance between them growing larger and larger. 

He watches until Louis disappears through the gate, and then he goes to meet his fate. 

{★}

Finding some sort of cover is the first order of business. He’s left the Continental, abandoning his suit jacket and trading his fancy mask for one of his nondescript ones. He’s weaving through crowd of pedestrians, distantly marveling at how they’re all continuing with their lives while Harry feels close to falling apart. 

It may be pointless to try and escape, but Harry’s never been one to give up easily. He breaks out from the busy street as soon as he can - it’s much too easy to miss a blade coming towards you when there’s people all around. There’s not many places he can go, but he keeps his feet moving, covering ground, surviving. 

The first shot is one he dodges entirely by accident, turning to check the street sign right before a bullet whizzes by where his shoulder just was. Heart pounding, Harry ducks behind the nearest trash can, gun out and held close to his chest. The small number of unfortunate passersby in near distance scatter like mice, hopefully getting far, far away. He scans his surroundings, searching for his pursuer. 

It’s a woman standing across the alleyway he just crossed, half-concealed by a tree. She’s masked and armed with a Glock in each hand. He has no idea who lays beneath the mask - maybe they’ve crossed paths in the city before or perhaps trained together at the Akademiya. It doesn’t matter though. It doesn’t matter that they’re from the same cut, the same quest, that he’s spilled no more blood than the rest of them. None of it matters when one breaks the code. Only one side is walking out of here tonight. 

So he waits a second and then retaliates, taking one and then two shots for her leg. He doesn’t want to kill her and raise his body count and subsequently his bounty, so he goes for incapacitating. She deflects both of them, and she’s definitely not aiming for his head when she shoots. 

Harry scrambles back behind the trash can, ears ringing from the recoil as he decides his next course of actions. Moving out from the other side this time, he aims for the slim loose-hanging branch of the tree, internally sending an apology for the universe just before he blasts it off at the trunk. Branches can grow back but lives cannot. 

The assassin startles when the curtain of leaves crashes into her; it’s not particularly strong but it’s definitely disorienting. Harry takes his shot, and the bullet embeds itself into her calf. He takes off before she can recover, racing down the street and turning the corner. 

Of course, he comes face to face with another masked face. The man extends his arm, knife out, and Harry blocks the strike with his gun to his wrist. There’s definitely an advantage to wielding two weapons at a time - as the assassin struggles against Harry’s block to his knife, Harry is free to access the man’s now vulnerable side with his knife. He stabs him just right of the sternum, horizontal blade sinking between the slots of his lower ribs and finding purchase. 

He holds it there for a moment just to make sure, before scrambling back. The man has gone rigid, mouth agape and eyes wide as he topples to the floor, thick crimson soaking the entire front of his shirt. If the man hurries, he’ll be able to reach a medic at the Continental and survive, but it’s officially taken him out of the chase. 

Harry doesn’t wait another second before he takes off again, adrenaline pumping through his veins. Staying on the streets is a guaranteed death sentence but Harry isn’t sure where else he can go. His apartment is a definite no, as is any Guild or underground-associated location which is unfortunately a big chunk of the city. 

His mind turns towards his only other viable alternative: the sewers. There’s a manhole cover at the end of this street so he races towards it. 

Moving fast makes him a harder target to hit but that doesn’t stop the sudden stream of bullets raining out behind him from trying. He throws himself towards the side of the building, pain erupting in the middle of his back where a bullet met his vest. He can feel it with every inhale and exhale, but he lifts his gun and shoots the assailant in the chest twice, one on top of the other. They stagger back, hand pressing at their abdomen - if they’re wearing a vest like they should be, their odds of surviving will be good. They were clearly a novice, shots inaccurate and back-up plan nonexistent. About nineteen years old, maybe twenty. 

Harry sticks close to the wall, eyes trained on the cast iron manhole less than ten yards away. It’s been less than ten minutes since he’s left the hotel and already three assassins have tried to kill him - he doesn’t want to know how many are still coming. The bounty must be pretty big to garner such immediate and intense participation, especially from a novice like the last one. A target of his caliber would typically be saved for the veterans. 

Still, it seems he’s been granted a minute’s reprieve because he makes it to the cover without any further trouble. He feels uneasy letting go of both his weapons for even a second but he has to if he wants to lift the circular disc. It takes a minute, teeth grit and jaw set, for him to drag it out but he does it. 

Without a moment’s hesitation, he slides his legs in first and then drops down. The smell is instantly overpowering, crawling into his noses and stinging in his eyes, but Harry still feels nothing but relief as he starts to move down the tunnel. This isn’t an escape, after all, just a temporary head-start. 

As he finally catches his breath, he can’t help but let his mind wander. He’s essentially on the run now, being hunted by assassins and ostracized by the underground. And while he may have escaped his first three attackers, there’s no telling how many are yet to come - and really, Harry knows that as long as greed exists in everyone and the bounty on his head persists, so much more is yet to come. Eventually he’ll get tired and sloppy. All it will take is a split second, and he’ll be dead. 

He doesn’t want to die, even if it’s inevitable. He wants to live, to experience life not as Koschei but as _Harry_. He’s twenty-six years old, but he feels like he’s years behind on the experiences that actually make a life worth living. For a few months, he was sure he’d get the chance to have it for good, but at least, he had it for a while.

He was Harry every time he was with Louis. And with Louis, he experienced the greatest life experience of all: love. 

Louis has probably reached his apartment by now. If Harry closes his eyes, he can almost picture him. Pacing the apartment and gnawing on his bottom lip, tears staining his cheeks. He’s probably worried about Harry, and Harry feels guilty because there’s no way he can reassure him. He’s not coming back. Whether he’s dead or still running, he can never see Louis again. And it _hurts._ It hurts more than the bruises on his body or even Oz’s betrayal. 

The true gift of having no one to love is having no one to lose. Harry had that gift once but he didn’t realize what a gift it was until he lost Louis. But even in the face of such disaster, the joy and peace that being in love has brought to him far outweighs the pain he’ll suffer at the loss. Even though he put Louis in danger and even if it may be selfish to think so, Harry can’t feel regret over allowing himself to fall in love and experience that joy for one incredible year. 

Forcing himself to stop thinking about things that will only make it harder to continue, he lifts his head and tries to walk faster. The remorse will only slow him down. Instead, he falters, coming to an abrupt halt. 

Standing ten feet away from him and horrifyingly real against the dank surroundings is _Aleksander._

For a moment, they just stare at each other. Harry is breathing hard again, adrenaline pumping through his blood and heartbeat thundering in his ears. He’s aching in multiple places and his ribs are throbbing again from his encounter with Lawrence. But he’s still got fight left in him, a burning brazing hope that he’ll be able to survive whatever happens next - to live up to his given name and cheat death once again. 

“Aleksander,” he says when it becomes clear he won’t speak first. His mouth feels like it’s been filled with gravel. “How’d you find me?” 

“There’s a tracker installed in your seal ring,” Aleksander says, hands folded in front of him, a calm and patient expression on his face. 

Harry looks down at his High Table access ring, lips curling into a grimace. “Of course there is.” He turns to look at his mentor - his guardian - bile rising in his throat. “You lied to me,” he croaks. 

“About the tracker?” Aleksander asks, confused. 

This isn’t the time for explanations and confrontations, but Harry speaks anyway, fury and frustration fueling his words. “Oz. He was the mole. But he had a letter.” He pauses to swallow. “He had a letter written by my mother to you. She told you to promise that I’d never end up in the same life as her and Dad… and you promised. You promised her that I’d never follow in their footsteps.” 

Part of him expects Aleksander to deny it - _hopes_ for the letter to truly be fake and for Aleksander to assure him that he’s never lied. But all he does is nod. “I did.” 

Harry lets out a shocked laugh, small and coarse. “You don’t even feel guilty, of course not,” he says, volume rising along with sharpness. “You don’t care that you broke the vow you made to my dead parents - to your _friends.”_

“Koschei, it is not what you think,” Aleksander says. 

“It isn’t? It seems rather simple to me. My parents didn’t want me to end up with this life,” Harry says, voice pulled ragged from his chest. He can still see his mother’s handwriting, seared to the backs of his eyelids. “They didn’t want me to become this. This _monster_ you shaped.”

“You are not a monster, Koschei,” Aleksander says, patient. “You never have been.”

“Shut - shut _up_ ,” Harry says, because he’s suddenly furious. He pulls out his gun, clicking the safety off as he points it at Aleksander who mirrors him with his own gun. “You made me into your little puppet.” 

Aleksander regards him carefully. “You have never been anything close to my puppet,” he chides, almost gently like Harry is a student that doesn’t know what he’s talking about. 

“I can’t even tell anymore,” Harry says, feeling his hand shake slightly. “I can’t tell whether you’ve been feeding me truths or lies or a mixture of both. I can’t tell who you are anymore.” It truly is an awful feeling, Harry realizes, to find out you don’t know someone you thought you did. 

“Your parents did make me promise to never bring you into what they were involved with and I did lie to you,” Aleksander says. “But it’s not what you think. I _kept_ my promise.” He takes a deep breath. “Harry, your parents were highly trained assassins but they were part of an independent organized crime group that formed outside of the High Table. They killed whomever their leader ordered them to kill: members of rival gangs, political leaders… and some innocents too. Collateral damage.”

Harry flinches. “No,” he says. It’s not true. His parents were good people. Aleksander has to be lying. 

“Their assassination was carried out by some surviving members who wanted their secrets to remain buried,” Aleksander says, almost gentle. 

“No,” Harry repeats, feeling like he’s been slapped in the face. He raises his gun. “You’re lying.” 

“Instead of telling you the truth, I let you think that the assassin that killed them did not follow the same code as you do. That it was revenge that caused it. That is the only lie I have told you. Your parents were born into a world that was very different from yours, Harry.” Aleksander pauses, taking a step forward. “But they got _out._ They escaped and changed their names and eventually ended up providing information to the High Table to terminate those operations for good. I was the one assigned to speak with them the first time. That’s how we met.”

“You’re lying,” Harry says again, because he can’t handle the alternative. His hands shake but he squeezes them around the weapon, trying to stay calm.

“Harry, your parents were _good_ people,” Aleksander says. “They went on to be _happy._ They moved upstate, married, and had you - you were their pride and joy. When your mother made me promise to never get you involved in what they did, she didn’t just mean specifically being an assassin.”

“Stop,” Harry says - begs. 

“I brought you into _this_ because that is what I do,” Aleksander says. “I recruit assassins. I recruited you the day you came home with me. But I did not turn you into a monster - I turned you into someone that kills monsters, who administers justice. And do not forget that you learned willingly. You trained willingly. And when you graduated at the Akademiya, you _chose_ to join the Guild.”

“Because it was all I ever knew,” Harry yells, voice cracking. “You still made me a weapon. I was only a soldier to you.” 

“I did make you a weapon,” Aleksander says. “I shaped you into the best weapon - the best soldier - and you prospered.”

“Shut up,” Harry says, voice like venom. He can’t hear anymore, can’t process anything. 

He lifts his gun, but doesn’t make any further move. It settles over him slowly, the realization that he can’t do it. He can’t kill Aleksander, whether he’s a liar or not. He can’t. 

So, he drops it. The gun hits the cement with a clatter, and he stays motionless. 

Aleksander’s eyes follow it. “Koschei,” he says slowly. 

“Kill me then,” Harry says, voice reverberating through the tunnel. “I broke the code - twice. Press the trigger and kill me.” He doesn’t know what he’s doing, heart pounding in his ears. He doesn’t know anything, it seems. Not about Oz, not about Aleksander, not about his parents. He doesn’t know if Aleksander could ever actually kill him, but he supposes he’ll find out now. 

“Koschei,” Aleksander repeats, with that same gentle tone. “You remember why I call you that, don’t you?”

Harry doesn’t answer immediately, eyes still zoned in on the gun. “You told me I escaped death when my parents were killed,” he says, voice sounding unfamiliar and monotone to his own ears. “That I would escape it time and time again just like Koschei the Deathless.” 

“I did say that,” Aleksander says, just as casual as before as his head dips into a nod. “And I was right.” He tilts his head, regarding Harry pointedly. “For the most part.”

There’s a depth to his voice that Harry has never heard before, but still he doesn’t move. He feels a wave of acceptance wash over him. This could be the end. 

“Because the truth is, Koschei was _not_ immortal,” Aleksander continues, voice emotionless. He raises his gun, and Harry doesn’t react, frozen in place. “In the end, he bled and died like any human. Slaughtered by Ivan Tsarevitch and his mighty steed and then burned at the pyre for his crimes. His ashes joined the earth like any mortal. Even he could not escape death forever.”

It’s only natural, the way Harry’s mind goes to Louis. He’d want to spend the last seconds of his life knowing he’s loved and been loved. He closes his eyes. 

When he thinks back to his exact moment hours later, Harry will recall that it took him a bit to realize. It takes him a bit to realize once Aleksander pressed the trigger. It takes him a bit to register the sudden searing pain that erupts inside him. His legs buckle, shoulders caving in as he crashes to his knees. His mouth parts on a strangled scream.

He clutches his arm to his chest, fingers spasming and grasping. His vision goes blurry but the bloom of red spreading across his skin, seeping onto his bones, is unmistakable. 

The sound rings though his mind over and over as he keels forward, eyes wet and jaw rigid. Aleksander shot him. Aleksander shot him in the _forearm._ That fact takes a moment to process as well, sinking into him and embedding into his bloodstream. He shot him in the forearm - not the stomach, chest, or head. His forearm. The limb flares with another wave of pain as Harry turns it over, eyes dropping to his forearm which is smeared with blood.

Aleksander shot him in the arm… directly over his wheel tattoo. 

Harry can’t even see it properly, the expanse of skin completely engulfed in crimson. But he doesn’t have to see it explicitly to know. And he does know. He can feel it deep within him. 

When he lifts his head, Aleksander is watching him with an impassive face. There is no trace of regret in his expression, nor sympathy. But there is no malice either. Their eyes meet and Harry sees nothing but charcoal and soot in his gaze. 

“Koschei the Deathless is dead.” Aleksander speaks slowly, voice heavy with an unnamable emotion. “But _Harry_ will live. And he will be free.” 

All at once, Harry is overcome with disbelief and shock, rooted to the spot as Aleksander returns his gun to his holster and wipes his hands on his slacks like nothing even happened.

“I’m frankly disappointed you’ve underestimated me,” he says. “I told you that your lover’s shadow was eliminated but yours was not. He followed you to the Continental, Harry. He witnessed the proceedings and recorded them. The full video is being delivered to the High Table as we speak.” He looks up to Harry. “Even if you will never believe me again… I care about you, Harry. I do.” 

Still Harry is silent, unable to speak, to comprehend what Aleksander is saying. Part of him can’t believe it. That he could get out of this - all of this - alive and safe. It seems impossible - it _is_ impossible. But he supposes Aleksander’s biggest lesson to him was that the impossible is not impossible. 

For a minute, Harry grapples with what to say. He looks at the man who made him into who is today. The man that took him in, guided him, shaped him, and lied to him. The man that sharpened him into the deadliest weapon but shielded him all the same. The man that saved him, and also threw him to the wolves. In the end, there is nothing he _can_ say. No words exist to encompass such a deep weight. 

As it is, Aleksander is no better. “Go,” he says, closing his eyes. “Stay low for the next few days but after that you will be safe… I hope to never see you again.”

They’re not words spoken with scorn. Harry understands that he means they never cross paths again in context of the Guild or the underground because once he leaves, he will be leaving completely. 

Harry feels struck with the sudden urge to stall. He’s bleeding out of his arm and down to his wrist, pain curling around the area and spreading up his body like a virus, and he wants to stall. But there is no point drawing out the inevitable. 

So he staggers to his feet, watching as Aleksander turns and begins walking away without a second glance. He sees the hesitance though, his slow steps that prove that this is just as difficult for him as it is for Harry. He is walking away forever but Harry knows that his mentor will never truly leave him, not completely. 

The tunnel is eerily quiet when Aleksander finally disappears from view. Harry waits just a second longer, breaths shallow and strained, before forcing himself into action. A shot to the forearm isn’t fatal compared to a shot to the heart or head, but the true danger from a bullet wound is never really the bullet itself. It’s the blood you lose as a consequence, and Harry is losing a lot of blood. 

He rips a strip of fabric from his shirt and uses it as a makeshift bandage to staunch some of the bleeding. It’s hardly effective but it’s better than nothing. He needs to extract the bullet and stitch up the wound. No, he needs _Louis_ to extract the bullet and stitch up the wound. 

It hits him like a brick. Louis. He doesn’t have to run anymore. Except suddenly that’s all he wants to do because he’ll be running towards Louis. He’s _safe._

With bated breath, Harry slides the High Table ring off his finger and flings it behind him. Then he turns to face the tunnel ahead of him, black stretching as far as he can see, and starts walking. 

{★}

By the time Harry pulls himself up onto a street a block from Louis’ house, his vision has gone a bit blurry. He feels lightheaded and faint, forearm throbbing with every breath. He needs to get to Louis as quickly as possible, yet every step just makes the pain worse. 

Gathering his bearings and blinking the spots out of his eyes, he puts one foot in front of the other and continues. Louis, he reminds himself. Louis is waiting for him back at his apartment - safety, warmth, and comfort is waiting for him back at his apartment. He needs to get to it. 

He focuses on that as best as he can, letting the memories of the past hour slide off his shoulders. There’ll be time to fully process the loss of Aleksander and the Guild in his life - the loss of everything he’s ever known. There’ll be time to come to terms about what he’s learned about his parents too. But not yet. Right now, all that matters is taking one step after another and _Louis._

When Louis’ building finally comes into view a few minutes later, Harry is close to falling to his knees in relief. A ringing has formed in his ears, drowning out even the sound of his own thoughts. He knows he’s causing a scene, walking out in public with his shirt covered in blood and grime and God knows what else as he offers no acknowledgement to the concerned questions of alarmed passersby - at least his gun is concealed. He’s sure New Yorkers have seen worse. 

Emotion fills his throat as he enters the lobby, heading straight for the stairs because once again, he couldn’t possibly wait for an elevator. His legs are sore when he bursts out into the hallway and then he’s half-running past door after door on either side. Once Louis stitches him up and Harry is finally able to explain everything properly, Harry is taking Louis straight to bed to sleep and never get up again. 

His hand raises, ready to knock on the door. Blood drips from his arm and to the carpet floors. He hasn’t got a clue what happened to his phone so he hopes Louis isn’t in the shower or something, impatience and desperation tangling inside him. However, when knuckles barely brush the wood, the door suddenly shifts back with a creak. 

Harry tenses. The door is already unlocked. 

The earlier relief he was feeling withers in his throat, mind automatically shifting into alertness. Hypothetically, there’s a chance that Louis was too consumed by his worry and panic to remember to lock the door… 

Rationally, though, is another story. 

He opens the door as quietly as he can, moving silently as he crosses into the apartment. The lights are on and everything appears to be normal. Then -

A stifled bark. A whole stream of them actually, muffled and distant but undeniably _distressed._ Clifford. Harry’s heartbeat picks up, hand going for his gun on instinct. He holds it out in front of him, arms rod straight, platform steady. Then he moves towards the living room.

Aside from the occasional bark, everything is deadly silent - unnervingly so. Louis’ apartment is never this quiet, but now it’s devoid of its usual sounds: Louis humming or singing along to music in the kitchen, tapping on the walls and tables, dancing across the floors. There’s no music playing, no shower running, no TV on or pets running around causing mayhem. If he didn’t know better, he’d think it was empty. 

It’s not empty. Harry steps into the living room and freezes in place, taking in the scene.

Louis is sitting on a chair. It’s one from the kitchen, jagged imprints from its legs embedded in the carpet where it had been dragged into this room. He’s not tied or restrained in any way but he might as well be for how still he is. The nozzle of a Makarov pistol is pressed to his temple. 

The hand attached to the gun connects to a man that is staring at Harry like he’s late to their dinner reservation. “Nice of you to finally join us,” he says after a moment’s pause, voice thick with an Italian accent that sounds natural and not forced. His tone is harsh and loud, a stark contrast to his figure. 

“Who are you?” Harry asks, but he’s pretty sure he already knows. He can see it in the familiar ice blue of his eyes and the shape of his eyebrows. The jut of his chin. 

“I am Christopher Scott,” he says, lifting his chin. “The _real_ Christopher Scott.” 

Harry exhales. “A decoy,” he says, feeling frustratingly knocked off balance. “Clever.”

Christopher eyes him carefully, flicking a look to his gun. “Drop it,” he says.

There’s a glint in his eyes: a dark and dangerous glint in his eye. The real Christopher may be skinny and sallow and not quite 5’8, but it’s that glint that roots Harry to the spot where brawn and height couldn’t. It’s the look of a man consumed by desperation and thick hatred that’s festered over a long time - one who’s got nothing to lose. 

So, he drops the gun. It hits the floor with a clatter, sound echoing in the room.

Louis sucks in a breath, fear coating every line of his face. The bob of his throat when he swallows nervously and the white curl of his fingers into his knees. Christopher came to his _home._

Harry feels that red roil of rage spark inside him again, eyes drifting back to Christopher. “Leave him alone,” he says, voice steady. It is not a demand, nor a plea. 

“I don’t think I will,” Christopher says, licking his slick lips. He’s sweating excessively, yet he’s as steady as a statue. This is a man that’s been preparing for this day for a long time and dreaming about it even longer. “I have to admit, Harry Styles, I underestimated you. Oz said you were good but I didn’t expect you to survive that massacre.”

His rage only grew at the mention of the backstabber, rushing through his veins and filling his lungs. “That was the plan all along then? Provoke me into breaking the rules and let others do what you couldn’t. What you didn’t have the _guts_ to do.” 

He’s doing something he thought he’d never do: _stall._ He’s doing it now and he did it back at the hotel too, but it was never for himself - it was not because he fears death. It’s for Louis. He fears Louis’ death more than he fears facing the worst fate imaginable. 

Christopher seems to know this, tilting his head as his lips stretch into a twisted smile. “That was the plan, yes,” he agrees. “I knew you would break. Everyone has a single exception - their greatest weakness.” He taps the tip of his gun against Louis’ face, making him flinch. “Even the great Harry Styles has a weakness. The carrier of his soul. That’s how the myth goes, right? Koschei the Deathless escaped death so many times because he ripped his soul out and kept it separate from his body.” He glances down at Louis. “Didn’t work out in the end.” 

“He’s done nothing to you,” Harry says, voice strained as he grits his teeth against the pain. In a way, Christopher is right. Louis does hold his soul, his heart, his everything. Harry can’t imagine a world without Louis and his light, and he doesn’t want to. 

“They didn’t know,” Christopher continues, ignoring him. “Oz and my impersonator. They believed you’d obey Continental rules even when faced with your weakness. They don’t understand pure desperation and what it can make you do. Not even Oz. He was angry, yes. I liked that about him. But his anger stemmed from selfishness.” Christopher’s eyes darken. “The most dangerous anger is the kind on behalf of another. You and I know that, Harry. It’s something we have in common.” 

“I’ve been shot,” Harry says, slow. His throat is dry, vision spotty and head pounding. “I’ll bleed out within the next hour. There is no point in any of this anymore. Let him go.”

“Already trying to bargain and negotiate,” Christopher murmurs, looking amused. “In my eyes, if you’ve only got an hour left, we ought to make the most of it.” His face contorts then, a flash of sick frustration marring his features before smoothing out. “I have waited two years for this day. Two years to bring Tori her justice and to see you bleed, Harry Styles. Months of research and planning and manipulating your friend into giving me the information I needed to pull this off. He spent weeks stalking your little boyfriend once he found out about him, did you know? Sometimes I tagged along.”

A wave of nausea rolls over Harry but he tamps it down, gritting his teeth against the onslaught of pain in his arm. He feels dizzy and unstable, but still so angry. 

“Let’s begin then, shall we?” Christopher says, a gruesome tinge of glee in his voice. He is staring directly at Harry, feeding off his reactions, but Harry is frozen in place as the realization processes in him. 

Christopher Scott has been waiting for this moment for _years._ He’s been waiting for the moment he finally gets to confront Harry and make him hurt the same way he’s been hurting for so long. Now he’s here savoring every second of this, drinking in every flicker of fear and pain in Harry’s face. He’s so consumed by this long-awaited satisfaction that he’s broken one of the most basic rules for assassins - because Christopher is _not an assassin._ He didn’t train and breathe and bleed for his mistakes again and again for the kill like Harry has. 

He didn’t learn the most customary rules of executing an elimination including seemingly the most obvious one of all: _keep your eyes on the target at all times._ Because now that Harry is here, Christopher is finally focused entirely on him and not on Louis. Harry watches out of the corner of his eye as Louis’ hand snakes down his leg to reach for his boot. It goes in and comes out curled around a familiar shape. 

All Harry sees is the glint of polished silver as Louis plunges the knife into Christopher’s thigh. 

If Christopher were an assassin, maybe he’d still have the bearings to press the trigger the exact moment he felt pain erupt in his leg. But he’s _not an assassin._ Instead of shooting, the gun slips from his spasming fingers and he crumples, letting out a howl of pain. 

All it takes is three seconds for Harry to spring for his abandoned Glock. Christopher staggers forward, still recovering from the blow when Harry double taps him, two shots straight to the head. The sound echoes in his ringing ears, the sharp recoil sending him stumbling back in a way it hasn’t since he was young and first learning to use a gun. 

Christopher’s body crashes to his knees, a look of pain and hatred so poignant on his frozen face as he goes slack. Dead. 

Louis leaps up from the chair, knife falling to the floor with a clatter. He has a hand clamped over his mouth in horror, eyes wide and wet as they land on Harry.

Harry swallows, opening his mouth to say something. All that comes out though is a wince, spots dancing over his eyes and muscles converting to molasses.

“Baby,” he says, lifting his arm which feels like it’s burning from the inside. Adrenaline truly is one hell of a drug, but what goes up must always come down, and Harry can feel as he begins to tip over the edge. “Do you… by any chance have a suture kit laying around?”

He collapses before Louis can reply.

{★}

From a very young age, Harry was taught to catalogue the details. Anyone could figure out what was staring them right in the face eventually but the real valuable information always comes from the parts most overlook.

Focusing on the details is also one of the best methods of distracting oneself, which Harry holds to be true right now. His eyes wander up the frayed stitches of Louis’ brightly colored circular table mats. There’s fine threads of golden woven within the greens and purples and blues, and he follows them like he might follow a trail. 

Anything to divert from the fact that Louis is currently digging into the inside of his forearm with his forceps in search of the bullet. His teeth are grit and jaw strained against the feeling. He’s been stitched up entirely conscious and sober before so he’s technically used to the feeling but it still hurts like hell. He reaches for the bottle of vodka with his free hand and takes another swig, letting the burn drown out the feeling.

“I think I found it,” Louis says then, sounding nervous. However, his hands are perfectly steady as he pulls the forceps out to reveal the fully intact bullet casing. He discards the bullet onto the dinner table, looking nauseous. “You’re so lucky it didn’t shatter,” he mutters, before flicking him a quick look. “Are you okay?” 

“Fine,” Harry says, returning to his focus on the table mats.

“I’d feel better if we were at a hospital and they could do a proper x-ray,” Louis says, not for the first time. “I’m pretty sure you missed all the arteries and vital nerves but there’s all sorts of complications that can be prevented if you had a CT done.”

“It’s fine,” Harry insists. He’s healed from worse and with the assurance of emergency specialists nowhere near as credible as Louis. 

“You could suffer permanent damage to your wrist or fingers,” Louis counters, sounding equally frustrated and stressed as he grips the curved needle and then straightens the suture. “And let’s not forget that I shouldn’t be doing this on you. There’s rules against operating on people you know for a reason.” 

“You’ve done it before,” Harry says. Though now that he thinks about it, Louis’ current state is a sharp contrast from how he was when they first met. All anxious eyes and nervous deep breaths. 

“That was different,” Louis says, exhaling shakily. “You were a stranger to me then. It was easier. Not the mention, that was a knife laceration and this is a fucking _gun shot wound.”_

“I trust you,” Harry murmurs, understanding that Louis is genuinely freaked out. “I know you can do this.” Louis just takes another deep breath and continues. Harry lets his eyes wander over to Clifford who’s laid out on the floor under the table, on high alert even after Harry freed him from the closet Christopher had stuffed him and Nibbles in. His big brown eyes flick from Louis to Harry every few seconds, making sure they were both present and safe. It reminds Harry a bit of himself. 

Nibbles, on the other hand, is fast asleep on the chair next to him. She had been distressed when she sprang out from the closet, no doubt just as confused and worried as Clifford was by the abrupt course of events, but in contrast, her exertion seemed to tire her out. She drifted off when Louis was still disinfecting the wounded area. 

They’re all in the kitchen now, neither of them particularly wanting to be in the same room as a dead body. Harry still checked twice after he regained consciousness to make sure the bastard was well and truly departed. 

He’s snapped out of his thoughts as Louis pierces his skin with the needle, hissing in pain.

“Sorry, sorry,” Louis rushes, wincing. “I can’t believe you’re doing this sober. I’m literally sewing you up with a needle.” There’s a nervous tinge to his babbling that shows he’s panicking, but his movements remain balanced as he continues the stitch, brows furrowed. He’s sitting right beside Harry who has his arm flat up on the table in front of him, opened suture kit abandoned by the tips of his fingertips and bottle of vodka in easy reach.

Louis lets out a breath of relief when he finishes the first set of knots, pausing to close his eyes and take a deep breath before cutting the thread and moving to the next one. “You still better let me get you a wrist brace to keep it stable,” he mutters. 

“As long as you order it online,” Harry says. They won’t be going out in public for a few days, just until things die down and the bounty fades away for good. He lets out a pained sound when his arm jostles slightly and a sharp flare shoots up his arm, eyes squeezing shut. 

“God, I can’t believe this is happening right now,” Louis is saying, voice raised a few pitches. “You got shot in the fucking arm, you fucking idiot. I thought you were going to die for a moment. I hate this and I hate you.” He’s scowling when Harry pries his eyes open. Louis is scowling and grumbling and panicking and he’s still the closest thing to an angel Harry’s ever seen.

“I’m going to be fine,” Harry assures him. He knows Louis’ rambling is his coping mechanism under such extenuating circumstances and that in reality, he’s worried out of his mind about Harry and that he won’t be able to help him properly. He can see it in the white-knuckled grip he has in the forceps and the tension in his face and shoulders. “You’re doing great,” he murmurs, gentle. 

“I swear to God, I’ll stab you myself next time,” Louis threatens, fumbling a bit with his next stitch. _“Idiot.”_

Harry takes another sip of the vodka, feeling it slide down his throat. He’s built up quite a high tolerance to alcohol over the years, mostly for undercover purposes and tactics, so he’s still fully coherent even as his vision goes a bit blurry at the edges, numbing some of the pain along with it. 

“So all those casseroles I sent with you to work went... where? The fucking _trash_?” Louis asks suddenly, startling Harry. 

It takes him a second to figure out what Louis is talking about. He already explained the general gist of everything that happened as well as his job description to Louis earlier, but they stopped talking about it when Louis needed to focus on finding the bullet. Now, it seems, they’re bringing it back. “What? Of course not,” he says, blinking rapidly. Honestly, he’s offended by that claim. “I ate them all,” he says indignantly, “and they were _delicious.”_

Louis pauses, staring at him. “You’re ridiculous,” he states. Harry thinks he’s done talking but then he speaks up again, cursing under his breath as he struggles with a knot. “I barely ever do sutures, you absolute idiot,” he spits out. “Don’t you fucking _dare_ ever get shot again.” 

“Thankfully, it’s not really on my agenda anymore,” Harry grits, wincing when Louis ties off the stitch a bit too harshly. “You’re doing great.” 

“Should have known you were too good to be true,” Louis mutters, full-on ranting at this point. “Of course, _of course,_ my boyfriend turns out to be an assassin. Of course that’s the secret you’ve been hiding all along. Makes bloody perfect sense.” 

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, because he hasn’t said it without there being a more urgent threat to one of both of their lives. “I’m sorry for bringing you into this.” 

Louis slumps in his seat, suddenly looking so tired. “I understand,” he says. “Why you didn’t tell me, I mean. I imagine it’d be difficult to introduce yourself as a killer on the first date.” 

Harry stays quiet for a moment, blue and gold threads of the placemat blurring together in his mind as he clears his throat. “I understand if you don’t want to be with me.” 

“What?” Louis says, head snapping up. His mouth drops open. “Are you serious?” 

Confused by the anger in Louis’ voice, Harry blinks slowly. “Louis, I murder people for a living,” he says, even more confused when Louis _scoffs_ in response. “I _make money_ off of it. They’re bad people but they’re still people, and I kill them.” He lifts his uninjured hand to rub at his temple. “It’s all over now but that doesn’t change the fact that I have so much blood on my hands. I don’t even know the total number of people I’ve killed, do you understand that? I stopped counting a while ago. I don’t remember all of them either. After a while, they all begin to blur.”

“Harry,” Louis says, sounding saddened by that. 

“I’m not a good man,” Harry says, pain in his voice. “I never have been. You believed I was, I know you did. That’s the hardest part of this. You’ve always looked at me like I’m someone irrevocably good, but now you know the truth and you won’t look at me the same ever again.” 

Louis quiet for a moment, and then, “You are a good man.” He says it quietly but firmly. “I still believe it.” 

“You’re too kind to me,” Harry murmurs, shaking his head. He really shouldn’t have expected anything less. Louis is the epitome of all that’s good in the world and even when he’s seen Harry for the monster he is, he still chooses to focus on the light in him rather than the darkness. 

“You’re a good man,” Louis repeats, stopping to tie off the next stitch. “And _yes,_ you’ve done bad things… to bad people. I rationally have no reason to believe that fact, yet I know that it’s true anyway. Is it still wrong? Yes. Do I feel even an ounce of sympathy for them? Frankly, no. If there’s one less vile person in this city thanks to your… colleagues, then good, I’m glad. And if that makes me a bad person… Well, who even constitutes the lines between good and bad anyway?” He bites his lip. “Nothing in the real world is that black and white. It’s gray. _You_ are gray, Harry. When you kill someone, you do so knowing that you’re helping to preserve justice. And you kill with mercy and awareness. You’ve never harmed a civilian, I know you haven’t. In your own admittedly darker way, you want to make the world a better place.” 

Harry doesn’t respond. Louis is truly too good to him. 

“So yes, I believe you’re still a good person,” Louis continues, letting out a breath. “And I’m not scared of you or disgusted by you. Not in the slightest. In fact, I still want to be with you, Harry.” 

The last sentence registers and Harry feels himself freeze, every muscle in his body gone tense. 

“I want to be with you,” Louis repeats. “I want you. I _love_ you, for fuck’s sake. Even with the blood on your hands.” He exhales, letting the words settle in the air between them. 

“I put you in danger, Louis,” Harry says after a lengthy pause. “At the Guild, assassins are strongly advised from the beginning not to get romantically involved with people during their contract because it almost always meant disaster. People like me - we’re all loners. We bear the weight of our actions by ourselves as well as the consequences and that’s how it should be. Because when we get other people involved, we put them in danger. We make them vulnerable. I knew that. I _knew_ that and I vowed that I would never let that happen, but then I met you and I became selfish.” He closes his eyes, pained. “If I was smart, I would have walked away in the beginning - the very moment I felt that first connection between us. I _should_ have walked away. But I didn’t. Instead, I deluded myself into thinking it could work out. That I could keep both parts of my life separate - that I could keep Koschei and Harry separate - and also keep you safe. But I failed. I couldn’t keep you safe in the end. I put you in danger and I’ll never forgive myself for it. You deserve better. Someone safe who you can be safe with.” 

When he opens his eyes, Louis is just staring at him. “That’s the most you’ve ever said to me at once and it was complete and utter bullshit,” he says, blunt. Harry blinks, taken aback. Louis huffs out a breath, looking frustrated. “You did keep me safe,” is what he says next. 

Harry opens his mouth to argue and Louis holds his hand up, still gripping the forceps, to stop him. 

“You did keep me safe,” he repeats. “I don’t just mean that physically either. You’ve always kept me safe, mind and body. God, Harry, you broke the code you’ve lived by for years and crossed a council of the most terrifying people in the world all to save my life and you did it without hesitation. You risked your life time and time again for me today and never gave up. If that isn’t keeping me safe and protecting me, I don’t know what is. And I already know you’d do it again in a heartbeat.” Louis pauses to exhale, voice wavering when he says, “You’d protect me no matter what and no matter who got in your way.” 

“I’d kill anyone that tried to hurt you.” The words slip out of his mouth unintentionally but Harry means it completely.

Louis grimaces. “I believe you,” he says, and then he lifts his head, gaze focused and certain. “I love you,” he says, words striking Harry to the core just as sharply as the first time. “I still want to be with you.” 

“You deserve better,” Harry says, squeezing his eyes shut briefly. 

“Who else would I deserve than someone that is so wholly devoted to me?” Louis counters, a frown settling on his face as he returns to the task at hand. “Someone that would throw away their entire life to be with me? Because that’s what you did. And you’re _out,_ Harry. You never have to kill someone again.” 

“But my history will always be with me,” Harry says, licking his lips. “The memories. The mindset. The training. The _knowledge_ … I know over a hundred ways to kill someone without a firearm and that’s not normal, Louis.” 

“I’ve never wanted to be with you because you’re ‘normal,’” Louis deflects. He pierces the needle into Harry’s skin for what looks like the last time. They’re both silent as he finishes the stitch and knots it twice, tugging it to the side and then cutting the thread. Once he finishes bandaging the area, he busies himself in returning the tools to his kit. 

Harry is relieved that it’s finally over but also frustrated beyond comprehension. How can Louis stand here and argue with him after everything that’s happened? He knows. He _knows_ who Harry is now and he still wants him. How can that be? “A man like me isn’t what you deserve as your boyfriend. As your _husband,”_ he says firmly. His eyes wander down to Louis’ stomach and he swallows. His voice comes out raspy when he adds, “As a father for your child.” 

Almost automatically, Louis’ hand lowers to cradle his nearly-invisible bump. Harry can’t help but wonder if he’d see a swell there if Louis took his shirt off. If he deserved the _privilege_ of seeing. All anger at Louis for keeping it a secret has evaporated, replaced only by guilt that Louis got stuck with him as the father of his baby. 

Looking contemplative, Louis finally speaks a moment later. “Do you love me?” he asks. 

“Louis,” Harry says, sighing. He doesn’t understand. 

“It’s a simple question,” Louis interrupts, arching a brow. “Do you love me?” 

“I love you more than anything in the world,” Harry says, unable to even consider lying. “That doesn’t change anything.” 

“What about our baby?” Louis asks next, and Harry falters, _our_ replaying in his mind over and over. “Would you love them just as much?”

 _Yes,_ he thinks immediately. Of course he would. But he’s not letting Louis pretend like this is that easy. “I could never be a good father,” he says. “I’m a murderer, Louis.” 

“You _were_ a murderer,” Louis corrects. “Not anymore.” 

Harry lets out a strained laugh, gesturing to the living room. “I killed someone less than an hour ago,” he says. 

“You killed someone before he killed me,” Louis corrects. “And he would have. You know he would have.”

“I killed his sister,” Harry says, head dropping to his hand. “He only wanted to kill you because I killed his sister.” 

“Why?” Louis asks. 

He looks up, confused. 

“Why did you kill her?” Louis asks, patient. “I already know but I need you to say it again.” 

“She was going to kill me first,” Harry admits. 

“So… self-defense,” Louis says. “And that fucking _psycho_ stalked you for two years because of it. That’s not your fault.” 

“He has a right to be mad,” Harry denies. He broke a family apart with his actions, whether inherently justified or not. “And things like that are always possible. Most of the people I kill are terrible people but some of them still have friends and family too. Vengeance and vendettas are always a possibility. I should have been more careful, and now you’ve paid the price for my mistakes.” 

“You saved me,” Louis says again, shaking his head. He sighs. “I’m not saying that this isn’t totally the worst day of my life and that I’ll probably not be able to sleep at night for a while, but at the end of the day, you saved me, Harry. And now you’ve left that part of you behind and it won’t be a worry again -” 

“There’s no guarantee of that,” Harry interrupts. As much as he’d love to believe he could leave it all behind without a trace, there’s always a chance of loose threads coming undone and the past seeping in when he least expects it. And the last thing he wants is for Louis to suffer on his behalf ever again. 

Louis frowns, taking a step forward. “And if that happens, you’ll handle it,” he says, confident. “I assume they don’t call you the best in the business for nothing. Besides, you already agreed that you’d never let anything happen to me.” 

“I wouldn’t,” Harry exhales. “God, you’re so stubborn.” 

At that, Louis’ lips twitch, holding back a smile. But then he clears his throat and turns serious again. “I’m a runner, Harry. I run from confrontation in favor of pretending like everything’s okay. It took me _nine months_ to finally ask you why you didn’t tell me anything about you because I was afraid of rocking the boat. Hell, the only reason I confronted you in the first place was because I started thinking that you didn’t want to be with me anyway. I didn’t tell you I was fucking _pregnant,_ because I was afraid of scaring you away. I didn’t push when you ghosted me for two weeks -”

Harry winces at that.

“I just pretended like everything was fine because I was always scared of the opposite,” Louis says, sounding sad. “You were right back at the hotel. I put so much pressure on communication for you when I can’t even do it myself. When it comes down to it, I always let my fear get in the way.” He takes a deep breath. “But I’m not afraid anymore. I’m done with that, and I’m done _running._ You fought for me, Harry. You fought for me so I’m going to fight for you. I love you. I want to be with you. I want you to raise this baby with me and keep us both safe because you always will.” He takes Harry’s uninjured hand. “ _Please,_ Harry… You asked me to let you stay once, and I let you. Well, this time I’m the one asking you. Will you stay?” 

Harry meets Louis’ eyes and sees nothing but steadfast resolve and hope in his eyes. His heart pangs, unsure how he ended up here with this angel that loves him and doesn’t care about his demons. An angel whom he loves so much he can’t stand it. He imagines getting up and walking out that door - imagines leaving Louis and his apartment and Nibbles and Clifford and their _baby_ behind forever. 

It doesn’t take him any time at all to realize that he can’t imagine it. Or, doesn’t want to, maybe. Feeling the final barrier between them crumble, Harry reaches out and cups the side of Louis’ face, fingers pressed against his soft hair and palm brushing his cheek. He leans down and Louis rises up to meet him, lips sealing together with matching sounds of content. It’s slow and sweet, lips sliding together and hands tugging each other close. Harry marvels at how everything - the pain, the exhaustion, the weight of the day’s events - seems to fall away as Louis melts in his arms. 

“I’ll stay,” he mumbles into Louis’ mouth a minute later. 

They kiss a bit longer, holding on a little too tight. Louis carefully maneuvers into his lap for more convenience and Harry’s hand slides to the side of his neck, thumb pressing into the steady flutter of his pulse that proves Louis is alive and with him. He keeps his other arm propped up on the table, forearm elevated and throbbing dully. Louis is a successful distraction from any discomfort.

“What’re we going to do with the dead body in my living room?” Louis murmurs when he pauses to take a breath. “There’s going to be so much blood on my carpet.” 

Harry pauses, a startled laugh breaking out of him. He presses his lips to Louis’ temple, right over the same spot a gun was pushed up to. “I’ll take care of it,” he promises. He hopes Aleksander won’t mind this one last favor. He kisses Louis’ nose next. “I love you,” he says, enamored with how the words feel on his tongue. 

He’s enamored with the way the words make Louis light up too, lips tugging up into a smile as he tilts his head down to meet his eyes. “I love you,” he echoes, leaning forward to kiss Harry’s forehead. “Always.” 

“I don’t know if I’m a good man,” Harry begins quietly, giving Louis a pointed look when he opens his mouth to protest. “I don’t know if I am, but I want to be. And I promise I will be. I’ll get better for you. You’re more important to me than anything else. You…” His eyes drop to Louis’ stomach, finally allowing himself to savor it. Something that’s half Louis and half him is going to grow in there. An infant, so innocent and precious and everything he’s not. Harry can feel a tightening in his chest, a flood of _love_ swelling in his heart. If he’s not the father they deserve right now, the one day he will be. He’ll make sure of it. “And our baby.” 

Louis brings a hand to hover his stomach only to pause in place. Harry stills when Louis grabs his hand and tugs it towards his tummy and underneath his shirt. It’s like his heart stops beating when Louis guides his open palm to flatten against his belly-button. 

Harry is pretty sure he’ll remember this exact moment for the rest of his life. He can’t really feel anything besides the natural softness of Louis’ skin, but knowing what lies beneath has him overcome with emotion. To his amazement, he feels his eyes begin to burn and then wetness slides down his cheeks. It surprises him and it surprises Louis who immediately throws his arms around Harry’s neck and hugs him tight. 

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” he whispers into Harry’s hair. 

And Harry closes his eyes and buries his face in Louis’ neck, inhaling the smell of his citrus body wash and nosing into his throat. His fingers curl into Louis’ ribs, heat bleeding between their skin. 

He cries. Louis cries. They cry together, alive and in love. 

{★}

_Dear Aleksander,_

_It took me a long time to write this letter. I must have changed my mind about doing it about a dozen times, but in the end there are words between us that have yet to be spoken and I owe it to myself to mend the rift between us._

_You may not even be aware there was a rift in the first place. The truth is, I spent the majority of the past six months loathing you. It was easier, I suppose, to pin the blame on a single person rather than accept that who I am and what I’ve done was the product of a lot of people, most of all myself. Part of me also hated you because of what happened with my parents - not because you lied to me but because you told the truth. In some twisted way, I wished I could go on living without knowing the truth about my parents and their past. For most of my life, they were the only good I had to look up to._

_It was immature of me, and I’m sorry for that. I know now you kept the truth from me for so long to protect me and to preserve my memories of them. Having spent days plagued with immeasurable guilt at the thought of what they must have done, I understand why you felt the need to spare me. But, I’ve come to terms with it now. The guilt I felt has dampened knowing they must’ve carried shame and remorse much larger than mine for decades._

_I know they loved me too. Remembering the good memories has helped me greatly, as does remembering that they changed. I’ve changed a lot over these past six months too; I’ve grown._

_Even so, I felt hesitant at the idea of reaching out. Louis was the first one to suggest that I write a letter - if not for you, but for me. For closure, I guess. But, I couldn’t even consider it for the longest time._

_I’m aware that the Guild prohibits me from conversing with you, really, but I decided I’d take my chances. Something has happened to me nearly two weeks ago that I knew I had to share with you, even after months of silence._

_I became a parent._

_Lyla Willow Styles was born on May 23rd at half past four in the morning. From the first time I held her in my hands, I felt complete and utter clarity fall over me since my induction into this lifetime. I had been preparing for months at that point, learning and researching and doing my best to become the best father I could be for Louis and our baby. It never felt like enough._ I _never felt like enough. I didn’t think I could ever be what my family deserved. But at that moment, when I held Lyla for the first time and saw her soft skin and frail bones, I knew that I would do everything and anything for her including be the parent she needed. The world is a complicated and confusing place, but the love I felt for her at first sight was not. That, in the end, I believe is all that matters._

_Holding my dear Lyla made me feel closer than ever to my parents. I understand now why my mother sent you that letter, why she feared the idea of me following in her footsteps even when I was so young and hapless. Thinking of my past - the horrors I experienced and committed myself - I want nothing more than for Lyla to grow up as far away from the underground as possible._

_In other words I want you to promise me, like you promised my mother, that Lyla will never follow my footsteps. Just to ensure there are no misunderstandings, I do not want Lyla involved with any Guild or High Table proceedings ever. I’d like to make that clear so as to avoid trouble in the future._

_I promise I didn’t write this with the intention of threatening you either._

_Asking after the Guild feels strange but I do it anyway. Is business still slow? How many wolves graduated last month? I wonder if you ever plan on retiring. I can imagine you getting bored every day without your Stratos to lead, but it may be good for you to finally rest. Maybe you’ll finally put a ring on Anya’s finger. (Don’t tell her I said that.)_

_The more time I spend with my family, the more I feel relief and peace that I left the Guild for good. There are a lot of things I miss about the underground even if the longing coincides with guilt, but leaving itself has never driven me to remorse. My inquiring over the current state ignites nothing beyond nostalgia within me._

_Still, I hope you’re well. I don’t know where we will stand after this, but I like to think it’ll be a little bit easier for us to work towards rebuilding the friendship we once had. There is a history between us that cannot ever be severed, even when it’s been stretched for a while now. One day, if it’s possible, you may be able to meet your god-daughter, but we’ll see. At the very least, I’ll extend an invitation to you and Anya for my wedding. (We’re currently thinking of a Spring ceremony. There’s no rush when you’re already eternally devoted.)_

_Louis wishes you his best, as do I. I’m really happy these days, if you want to know. I sincerely hope you’re happy too._

_Until we cross paths once more,_

_Harry_

{★}

While the High Table and the Guild continue to operate for decades, changes are made to the infrastructure. Transparency especially for High Table rulings becomes a priority as well as mandatory mental and wellbeing evaluations to monitor the approach and regard assassins have towards the act of taking lives.

Aleksander steps down at the age of seventy-one, retiring and finally marrying Anya on a quiet summer day with no audience but the pastor and the sun shining down on them for what felt like the first time. 

The legend of Koschei never dies. Tales of his greatest accomplishments are whispered at the Akademiya and traded at the Continental, often with added embellished details. The topic of what happened to him remains fractured, and though some believe the official report from the High Table that he was peacefully expelled from the underground, others believe he’s still lurking in the shadows, plotting his revenge for whatever wrongdoing the rumors have whipped up. He becomes a ghost story for novice assassins who gravitate towards knives in hopes of one day being as efficient with them as Koschei was. 

In the end, it seems that Koschei the Deathless truly was immortal.

{★}

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "Yesterday" by the Beatles. For the first time ever, I also attempted a fic playlist which you can find [here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0Z0QKOqumdgB27N9cHkC56)
> 
> Find me at:
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/falsegoodnight) | [tumblr](http://falsegoodnight.tumblr.com) | [fic post](https://falsegoodnight.tumblr.com/post/646210167492493312/yesterday-came-suddenly-explicit-49k-they-dont) | [drabble one](https://falsegoodnight.tumblr.com/post/646410718251565056/yesterday-came-suddenly-drabble-one-mature)
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